


Wrought In Ruin

by BansheeQueen



Category: Warcraft, Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood and Violence, Capital City of Lordaeron, F/F, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lordaeron, Northrend, Quel'Thalas (Warcraft), Ranger-General Sylvanas Windrunner, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Torture, War, survivor sylvanas, sylvaina
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2020-04-07 01:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BansheeQueen/pseuds/BansheeQueen
Summary: Ten years after the disappearance of Prince Arthas, whispers of the dead rising from their graves, and attacking the living wash over Lordaeron. Terrified refugees flee in all directions, many seeking asylum in the northern kingdom of Quel’thalas.But they’re turned away.King Sunstrider does not believe in the rumours, nor do any of his court advisors. As such, Ranger-General Sylvanas is under strict orders to turn away any humans at the border.Soon the flood of refugees becomes a trickle, then nothing.A frigid wind sweeps northward, carrying with it the scent of decay and rot.And something whispers in the mind of millions, a sinister voice void of mercy, compassion, or empathy.‘Frostmourne hungers.’





	1. Beyond The North Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is a retelling of the events in Warcraft III, and is not entirely accurate to the events as they happen in canon lore. I absolutely adore feedback. If there is something you think I could improve on, or you simply want to share your thoughts BY ALL MEANS. Also note that the rating for the story may change for chapters later on, and more characters will be added to the list as it goes on. 
> 
> **tumblr:** ladywindrunner (I rp on this account, feel free to follow if you wish to see more of my trash writing).
> 
> I may be late jumping onto the sylvania wagon, but god damn it -- wait for me!

**I CHAPTER ONE I**

**Beyond the North Sea**

 

There were always whispers, that the north held a secret so terrible none dared to venture there. A continent abandoned, lost amongst the snow and ice. Thousands of corpses lay there, forgotten from ages past, where wars were fought not between men, but rather, pitted the desperate living against the ravenous dead. In old tales told by men with long beards and hazy eyes, they spoke of a blackened spire, rising out of the tallest mountain, guarded by an evil no longer fathomed.

            But where evil lies, so does power.

           

The journey proved to be too long for Jaina’s comfort.

            It was not the sea that bothered her, nor the cold – rather something whispering within the gales that rocked the ship. It pulled hard at the sails, much too hard in her opinion. She watched with wary blue eyes as the wind that once fought them so hard as they trudged through the North Sea, now pushed the vessel along. Had Jaina not been wiser, the woman would have sworn somehow this foul wind was eager. For so long of their journey it fought them, but two days ago, it changed. After they passed over some unknowable threshold, it seemed the growing cold welcomed them.

            Jaina’s wary eyes narrowed, she peered up at the sky, grey and overcast. Even up there, so high above them it was perhaps unknowable, something was amiss. She could almost sense a presence.

            Alas, if there was something watching them, it proved to be beyond her senses.

            As the sailor in the crow’s nest shouted for land, Jaina found herself joined by another.

            Prince Arthas Menethil of Lordaeron. A man of vanity, pride, and above all else – purpose. Lordaeron was suffering, a plague was taking its toll on his homeland, ravaging villages and towns, threatening to spread to cities. It was hardly under control, Lordaeron’s forces spread thin to keep the infected out – they had instructions to kill anyone attempting to move westward.

            Capital City could not be risked.

            Arthas was a tall man, blond hair long and left free, eyes piercing and intense, even in softer moments. His jaw was strong, kept clean shaven as a prince could not look like rabble. His armour was polished, as it always seemed to be for these moments. Dramatic, that was a word that came to Jaina’s mind as she regarded him. He clutched his war hammer with one hand, eyes fixed on the foggy horizon.

            “Northrend,” the prince murmured, thin lips pulling into a vindicated smile.

            Jaina frowned as the cold wind ripped through the deck of the ship, blowing her hood down and turning her once calm blonde locks wild. She was quick to pull it back up, arms crossing over her chest as she wrapped the cloak around herself.

            “Apparently,” she replied, almost grumbling. “Arthas, it’s not too late, we could turn back.”

            Arthas looked to her, brows knitting downwards. It was as if the words Jaina spoke were an insult.

            “Northrend is the source,” he answered, anger bleeding into his words. “Why in the name of the Light would we turn back now?”

            The arduous journey was about to pay off, Arthas would see his apparent ‘foolish notion’ justified. They’d ventured all over Lordaeron for any clue, for any semblance of clarity regarding the plague. He knew most grain stores were infected, and he’d seen it through the food been purged. Had it put a strain on his beloved country? Of course, but the tide of death waned, people ceased to vomit blood, they stopped drowning in their own fluids.

            He saved them once already.

            Finally, they’d caught word from a peasant that a strange man had been lurking around the grain stores originally. An older man with a long white beard, his face obscured by a cloak. A mage, the villager called him. Said that the stranger spoke of many odd things, but something he murmured one night, when the supposed mage thought he was by his lonesome stood out.

            ‘ _In the north, beyond the empty sea. There so does a throne wait, vacant and wanting. The plague was only the first step of several. A promise, soon to be fulfilled.’_

And that is how they came to the answer. Uther and Jaina both agreed, there was little else that fit such a description besides Northrend… but they did not share Arthas’ enthusiasm for the quest. They cautioned him, told him to wait. No one travelled to Northrend, no one dared enter a realm that was empty of anything besides doom. To brazenly charge into it was madness.

             Jaina’s expression was one of genuine concern.

            “Arthas, something is _wrong_.” She advised, gazing travelling back to the grey sky. “I can’t explain it, but some… something is watching us.”

            Clearly, Jaina’s opinion on their venture hadn’t changed. The prince tried to bury his displeasure, he frowned, gazing back out to the mist. Shapes were beginning to form, glaciers taller than the ship itself loomed over them. They passed straight under one that was awe-inspiring, an archway of ice, shimmering in the ugly light.

            He attributed her paranoia to her dismay of the mission. Many feared Northrend, and he’d be lying had he claimed he’d not once also possessed such anxiety. Northrend featured in many old tales, it was a place of evil, that it was cold and unforgiving due to what lay there. Overtime, he’d forgotten about it, and when he did escape into wonder about the far-off continent, he believed the scholars.

            That there’d been life there. Northfolk, people who could survive the hostile, bleak environment.

            Chances were, they were the ones such evil tales spun out of. Perhaps they were barbarians, attacking all who dared to encroach on the frozen wastes.

            “I think you’re weary from the journey,” Arthas claimed, and Jaina could not determine whether he was just being ignorant or dismissive.

            Her gaze saddened at his words, and she looked away.

            “Perhaps your right,” she replied, he’d become so head-strong recently, and she didn’t wish to argue. “Do be careful, Your Highness.”

 

Jaina said precious little to those she passed as she disappeared below deck. She, as nimbly as the sailors hurrying about the ship, descended the stairs with little thought given to the swaying of the vessel. The cold was here as well, lingering in the damp air. Here at least, the wind wasn’t blowing, and she felt for a moment that she was out of sight of whatever presence loomed outside.

            One dim lantern hung from the ceiling, providing just enough light for the mage to spot a friend hunched over a map, shaking his head gently.

            “Ser Uther,” she spoke with obvious trepidation. “There’s no need to scour the map, it appears we’ve arrived.”

            Uther was so lost in his own thoughts he hadn’t heard Jaina journey down from the deck. She stood there with a violet cloak wrapped around her frame. It was a second before she released it, revealing the heavy white cloth, and dyed leathers meant to protect her from the chill. Her hands, released of their duty of keeping the cloak tight around her frame – now fidgeted.

            Uther, with his kind eyes scrutinizing the tell, smiled at the young woman.

            “My Lady, I thought we agreed there was no need for titles.” He quipped playfully, but she could see it on the older man. His face was plagued with such great concern, it shone through despite his trying smile, and strong stance.

            “Perhaps one day I will do away with titles,” she remarked, approaching the table. “When you do so as well.”

             Uther chuckled, gaze falling to the map again as he placed a hand over Lordaeron.

            Oh how he longed for home.

            “Forgive an old man,” he requested idly, “but for you, there will never be an exemption.”

            She smiled in return, but it was strained. Arthas’ words and his actions, she couldn’t stand them for much longer. This crusade he was on; it was changing him in a way she once couldn’t fathom. The prince was a good man, but the plague, the necromancer Kel’thuzad, and everything in-between – her heart hurt. 

            “And what did the Prince say?” Uther questioned, knowing the exchange must’ve been sour.

            “That I must be weary from the journey,” she scoffed, bitterness flaring. “As always, I appreciate his concern…”

            Uther snorted, “My Lady, you mustn’t curtail your emotions for my comfort.”

            She gave the paladin a look, but its sharpness diminished quickly. She sighed, shaking her head.

            “He won’t listen to me,” she said, “it’s frustrating. Everything that he’s done to protect Lordaeron, to protect the people, I think… the tolls it’s taken on him…”

            Uther’s armor did not gleam the same way Arthas’ did. He was not as vain as the young prince was. He maintained it, of course, and it showed – the bronze and white-silver was delightful together, but there was tarnish from the weather. His wondrous blue cloak was dirtied and torn, his salt and pepper beard was growing out more than he would’ve permitted usually.

            “I fear what he may have done,” Uther admitted, he didn’t wish to think on it. “I heard rumours, when we turned away at Stratholme…”

            Jaina tried her best to ignore the whispers about Stratholme. 

            “For the people,” she reiterated quietly, as if somehow that reasoning excused the means, excused what Arthas may have done when he demanded she and Uther to choose.

            She turned from Uther, despite his efforts he hadn’t been a comfort. As she walked away, she stopped, glancing over her shoulder at him.

            “Ser… _Uther_ … do you… sense something amiss?”

            Uther gave her a curious look. “Amiss, Lady Jaina?”

            “Yes,” she nodded, “Here. In Northrend.”

            There was a long moment of consideration. He wasn’t a mage, he hadn’t the gift of magic. Whatever Jaina could perceive was beyond his scope – but as they drew closer to Northrend, he couldn’t push the ominous thoughts in his mind, that something was wrong.

            Was it the Light warning him? Was it simple intuition?

            “I cannot say if what I feel is simply an old man’s concern, or actual foreboding.” Uther’s truthfulness was strangely assuring, Jaina’s frown lessened. “But do not ignore your instincts, My Lady. Not even for His Highness.”

            She turned from Uther, eyes downcast as she made her way to her cabin.

            Her instincts did not just warn of some malicious entity lingering in Northrend.

            They spoke of Arthas as well.

           

           

 

 

 


	2. The Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Far from the comforts of home, Jaina, Uther, and Arthas make landfall on the frozen continent of Northrend. It is a frigid and unwelcoming place, with no signs of life beyond the brave soldiers that accompanied them from Lordaeron.  
> The whispers in Jaina’s mind grow louder, warning the mage that their journey will lead to nothing but despair.  
> Something waits out in the cold, hidden by centuries old ice.  
> And she fears it's after the man she loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments everyone! I tried to reply to everyone (I think I did? Yell at me if I'm wrong), and your feedback is amazing. ❤︎
> 
> Now... you all must trudge through the snow, and backstory before you reach Quel'thalas. But I promise it's coming. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**II CHAPTER TWO II**

**The Promise**

 

The cold that haunted the ships was a shadow compared to the frigid temperatures of Northrend. Landing on the frozen beach, snow crunched underneath the heavy boots of footmen, and all around them great cliffs of ice dwarfed their fledging encampment. One vessel, _The Righteous,_ was in the midst of repair after running aground on a plane of ice hidden just under the water’s surface.

            The command tent was large, wind kept at bay just barely. Jaina watched as the gusts made the whole structure shudder. The ground was wooden boards lined in rows, the middle of which was covered in a deep blue carpet in-lined with yellow accents and gold trim. There were chairs centered around the war table, a map laid on it.

            Jaina eyed the parchment, her expression decidedly neutral. There was hardly anything on it, no one had ventured to this desolate place in eons. There were no detailed maps, no landmarks that they knew of to guide their journey. They were blind. The map before them was simple a sketch of the few glaciers they passed to get in, and this miserable location.

            There was only one way out – a long narrow canyon, leading to _somewhere._

            “I can see why people avoided this place,” Arthas’ voice broke the quiet that had been Jaina’s company. She turned to see him, snow clung to the crevices in his armour. He pulled back his hood, shaking his damp hair free.

            “Not one for the cold?” She quipped.

            He snorted, glancing at her as he moved to sit down. He wanted out of his armour, wishing to relax before the long road ahead of them. He’d been helping the men, patrolling the area with Uther, all he wanted now was to be away from the prying eyes and pressure his people put on him.

            The turn in his mood showed, his brows turned downwards, lips forming a gentle if pronounced frown of thought and discontentment. He pulled one gauntlet free, placing it on the table next to him as he fiddled with the other, eventually slipping it off as well.

            Free finally from the confines of the entrapments of leather and metal, his hands felt the first wisp of Nothrend’s chill. They almost ached from the temperature difference.

            “What could possibly survive here?” Arthas pondered aloud, looking to Jaina. “How is it that Kel’thuzad manages to survive where there are precious little signs of life?”

             Jaina approached him, tilting her head to the side as she regarded the prince.

            “He has his cult,” she pointed out, gaze shooting to the wall of the tent as the wind howled. She hesitantly continued. “He appeared to master the art of necromancy… what fear of death should the man possess?”

            Arthas took Jaina’s hand into his own, calloused thumb tracing over her knuckles. He drew her gaze away from trembling walls of the tent, hoped to distract her from the frigid environment kept at bay by thin walls.

            She was beautiful, and the touch of wild that this brought about in her – some locks of hair just out of place, leather damp from the snow, and ends of her cape haggard by ice… adventure suited her well, though he wasn’t certain she’d appreciate the notion. He wasn’t certain of many things recently, and slivers of doubt surrounding himself and Jaina were prominent when he allowed himself the moments to reflect.

            “He’s just a man,” Arthas reassured her, dogged determination surging to the forefront of his look. “And he’ll die by my blade, I swear it… To Lordaeron, and you.”

            Jaina’s brows rose at the oath.

            She regarded his hand, watching as his thumb slid back and forth, comforting her with such a miniscule gesture.

            Jaina let herself smile as he guided her closer with a soft tug.

            “He’s a mage,” she warned him gently, free hand rising to cup his cheek. She could feel the stubble beneath her palm. “Do not underestimate him, Arthas.”

            “He’s not a mage,” Arthas countered, faintly leaning into her touch. “Perhaps he was once, but no longer.”

            Curiosity nipped at her, Jaina indulged him.

            “What would you call him then?”

            “A monster,” the prince answered, a vicious fire flaring up behind the blues of his eyes. “An unholy bastard.”

            She couldn’t blame him for the hatred he felt.

            At that moment she leaned down and kissed him, wishing wholeheartedly that somehow time would reverse, that they could find Kel’thuzad and stop him before Arthas became consumed with vengeance. He was a good man, righteous, chivalrous, and would one day make a brilliant king – but this strange… she wouldn’t even call it a war. But whatever it was, its toll was mounting. Every atrocity this damn necromancer committed, and Arthas was forced to face…

            Jaina feared the good in the prince was dying.

            But in their kiss, she felt nothing but the love he had for her. There wasn’t a hint of anger, or pain. His affection for her was pure, it was the only thing that this adventure hadn’t somehow twisted. Whatever fleeting feelings they possessed at the beginning, shrouded by his decision to end their teenaged romance years ago, had kindled.

            _Stratholme._

            She faltered, breaking their eager kiss. Her eyes opened slightly, hazily focusing on his features.

            His gaze was compassionate, curious, not at all reflective of the horrendous rumours surrounding what he might have done.

            Perhaps that’s all the rumours were – hearsay and gossip.

            “Promise me,” she whispered, her breath mingling with his. “That you’ll stay a good man, that whatever we find out here…”

            Uncertainty took precedent, he regarded her with concerned wonder.

            She freed her other hand from his, and touched his other cheek.

            “Promise me you’ll come home.”

            The prince said nothing for a moment that felt too long to Jaina, but she could see him trying to understand her fear. He never would, she knew that. He was too headstrong, too proud, but he always made an attempt to keep his promises to her. She knew that, he’d been that way since she met him.

            He kissed her then, so tenderly it almost hurt her heart.

            “I promise,” Arthas murmured, running a hand through her golden hair. “I’ll come home.”

 

 

Two days passed before they were ready to venture forth. It was a blessing that the howling storm dwindled some, the near white-out conditions fading. Now, they could properly see the area around them. Sheer cliffs on all sides save for the beach, hardly any trees, and those that remained were long dead, worn by vicious sleet and time. There were more rocks then they could have spotted before, large jagged, sharp rises poking out of the snow, some of them coated with ice thicker than a man’s arm.

            It was alien and beautiful, the sun managing to break through the clouds. The snow shimmered, ice gleamed, and the snowflakes falling were mesmerizing.

            Jaina was lost for words, her lips nearly quirking into an awe-inspired smile before that whisper in her mind rose to remind her.

            This place was evil, perhaps once long ago it hadn’t been, but it was now. That terrible something was once again watching them, and the sun did nothing to abate the sensation. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, as if somehow that would make the impression cease.

            “Lady Jaina,” Uther greeted her, grand hammer in tow. “The sun has finally blessed us, it seems.”

            “I’m not certain I’d call it a blessing,” Jaina replied, gaze fixed on the sky. “I cannot shake the feeling, Uther. Something’s amiss.”

            “I hope it’s just the necromancer’s magic,” he answered, voice grim. “Northrend’s legends are not kind to those who wander here.”

            They drew quiet as Arthas approached, confident in his steps and purpose.

            “The weather broke just in time,” he noted, nodding in return to Uther who bowed his head. “Good, Kel’thuzad cannot hide behind the snow any longer.”

            Jaina snorted, “there is plenty more snow, Arthas.”

            He gave her a look, lips faintly quirking upwards.

            “Fair point, I’ll concede.”

            No one wanted to trudge through the snow. Whether on foot or on horseback, travelling was arduous. Arthas and Uther rode in front, flanked by knights, and Jaina just behind them, accompanied by her own. Her hood was up, sheltering her face the best it could from the chilling wind that never seemed to cease.

            She felt sorry for the soldiers, they didn’t have horses to ride on. They marched without complaint, but Jaina could only imagine the curses they held at bay. She, like them, wanted to go home. She missed any semblance of warmth, she missed trees, birds, and animals.

            Northrend, for the last three days she’d been here, lacked life. No birds, wolves, or bears, even the plants were dead from what she’d seen. They were surviving off of supplies they brought, though some men claimed they’d had luck fishing.

            They couldn’t survive off of fish alone, however.

            The canyon stretched on for miles, the walls staying high, at times, closing in on them to form short and ominous ice caves.

            Uther glanced to Arthas.

            “Has Jaina spoken with you?” His question caught the prince’s attention immediate.

            Arthas’ expression was distinctly suspicious.

            “About?” Arthas wasn’t going to try and guess what Uther and Jaina might have spoken about. He hadn’t the time despite the march, he was trying to determine Kel’thuzad’s plan, and what the fallen mage was doing out here.

            “Northrend,” Uther specified, “she’s convinced that something or someone is watching us, and means us harm. I agree with her.”

            He should have guessed. Arthas didn’t bother to hide his annoyance, his wary gaze turned sour.

            “We’re hunting a necromancer, one who tried to cull Lordaeron of all life,” the prince countered, “it’s not shocking that perhaps his evil lingers here.”

            Uther frowned, analyzing his friend.

            “So she has spoken to you,” Uther determined, he could see it on Arthas’ face. He didn’t care for the discussion.

            Arthas did nothing but nod.

            “And you disagree?”

            Arthas scowled, sharply looking over at Uther.

            “I never said I disagreed,” Arthas snapped, grips on the reins tightening. “We spoke of it when we first arrived, and two nights ago.”

 _“And?”_ Uther was prying, as was his way at times. Arthas knew he meant no harm by it, he simply wanted Arthas’ opinion.

            But it was irritating.

            Arthas, for once, swallowed his pride.

            “I was somewhat dismissive of it originally,” he admitted, “but I apologized for it, then she confided in me once again.”

            Before Uther had the chance to press more, Arthas rose his hand, staying his friend’s words.

            “I admitted that I too, felt this place was… odd… but I believe it is Kel’thuzad.” Arthas stated, “look around, Uther. Nothing could survive out here. Evil, I imagine, needs to eat as well. Unless you wish to tell me that demons can survive off of snow alone?”

            Uther snorted, but his gaze were distant.

            “You would be surprised what evil can live off of, Arthas.”

            Arthas’ response was delayed by a strange sight, one that drew his gaze from his friend and what was before him.

            The canyon widened here, walls crumbling away, disappearing underneath snow drifts that rivalled the greatest deserts. The ground sunk downwards into the largest crater any of them ever seen. Some ancient ruins made of the blackest stone stuck out from the ice walls, broken pillars and archways, and to the east, what looked to perhaps be an actual structure – collapsed but preserved by the ice and snow.

            Yet that was not what dumbfounded the trio. Arthas, Uther, and Jaina rode up the crater’s edges, silent as their eyes took in the sight.

            Bones.

            Skeletons, absolutely massive in size, littered the frozen wastes. Great reptilian skulls were scattered about, with ribs protruding out of the snow and ice. Even the path down, which Jaina spotted, was nothing but grand steps formed by bones, wide enough to accompany horses, and perhaps even wagons.

            “Light have mercy,” Jaina murmured, unable to take her eyes off of the sight. “What is this place?”

            “Those are dragon bones,” Arthas numbly commented, “Dozens of skeletons, perhaps even hundreds.”

            Uther’s eyes narrowed, shaking his head.

            This place… something was _wrong._

            “No good will come of pursuing Kel’thuzad down there,” Uther stated, he tugged on the reins, guiding his horse back around. “We should turn back.”

            Arthas’ eyes widened, he promptly moved to block Uther’s exit.

            “We cannot give up now!” Arthas shouted, angered by the mere thought of retreat. “Kel’thuzad is down there, hiding amongst the bones, we can stop him here.”

            Uther’s glare was fiery.

            “That’s a graveyard, boy. You want us to chase a _necromancer_ into some sort of dragon boneyard?” His words were firm, and his tone harsh. “You’ll be damning us all to join the dead.”

            Jaina gaze flicked between the two.

            “Arthas,” she said, her voice decidedly kinder than Uther’s. “We’ll all die down there.”

            Arthas’ furious glare did not leave Uther.

            “I am not your _boy,”_ he hissed, words oozing venom. “I am your _prince.”_

Uther’s nostrils flared from hot, angry breaths. He shook his head faintly.

            “Your Highness,” Uther stated, his utter disappointment in his friend clear. “We will all perish if we go down there.”

            It was due perhaps to Jaina’s sense of incantations that she once again turned to the path downwards. Her eyes went wide, dark blue irises blazing to life to a seething aqua, as her hands released her horse’s reins and rose up, palms turned outwards. 

            Black and purple fire smashed into a rippling shield erected just in time, it washed over the three, turning to ugly, grey smoke as Jaina’s startled horse reared upwards, throwing the mage into the snow.

            A dark chuckle cut through the wind, and as the smoke cleared, their gazes were fixed on their attacker.

            An older man in heavy green and black robes stood alone before them, his face obstructed by a hideous skull mask.

            “You followed me all this way, Prince?” the stranger taunted, both hands still brimming with unholy magic. “I’m flattered.”

            Arthas’ blood boiled, he snatched his hammer, his grip on it nearly painfully tight.

            Vengeance was at hand, everything Lordaeron suffered, everything _he_ suffered, it was all about to be paid in blood.

            He’d found Kel’thuzad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't know if I should put the relationship Arthas / Jaina in the description as that's not the main focus? @.@ But it's important to the backstory, in particular, for Jaina... thoughts?


	3. Light's Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthas can scarcely believe it. Emerging from the wintery abyss is none other than Kel’thuzad, the necromancer responsible for the plague that shook Lordaeron to its very core.  
> Arthas’ drive for vengeance is tangible, too many people died at the hands of Kel’thuzad and his Cult of the Damned.  
> Far from Lordaeron, Arthas, Jaina, and Uther now face down a foe that they all hoped they’d never lay eyes on again.  
> The dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per your advice, I have added Jaina Proudmoore / Arthas Menethil (past) into the relationship tags! Thanks again. ^^ (Also I may have figured out that chapter count thing. c: Hope so)
> 
> Thank you guys for feedback!

**III CHAPTER THREE III**

**Light’s Vengeance**

 

Kel’thuzad was a tall man, his spindly body hidden by the hefty, warm robes he’d wrapped himself in. The only clue to his lanky stature were his hands. His fingers were long and callous, knuckles knobs of bone. His beard was long, a silver-waterfall underneath the grotesque skull he used as a mask. He stood unafraid as Arthas, Uther and their soldiers faced him, unsheathing their weapons.

            He chuckled as he watched Jaina rise from the snow, her eyes brimming with magical prowess. She now clung to a staff, pointed green crystal on its tip crackling as it reacted to the woman’s anger.

            The dark glow around his hands twisted, flashes of hideous green arcing until Kel’thuzad flung his hands into the air, and the spell roared outwards. Bolts of lightning struck the icy ground, creating smoldering craters as black as night. Arthas’ horse let out a frightened neigh, rearing upwards whilst Uther’s whickered and flattened its ears.

            Out from the craters crawled undead, human and orc skeletons, dragging up rusted, ruined weaponry. Flecks of skin still clung to them, pale and blue from exposure long ago. Their eyes burned with a wicked, cerulean light.

            “Come now, Prince,” Kel’thuzad sneered as his undead armada began to shuffle forward. “Let us see how the Light compares to the frigid powers of Northrend!”

            The undead were a haunting reminder of Kel’thuzad’s atrocities in Lordaeron. Always one step ahead, surrounding himself with the sick and ailing so he may twist them into his subjects when need be. They’d fought so many, whether risen from graveyards, or the recently deceased. Jaina’s hope dwindled as she saw them, their ambling walks turning into terrifying sprints that defied logic. Their snarls resonated with each other, creating a terrifying symphony as they charged.

            Arthas rose his hammer into the air, blue eyes taking on a shimmering golden gleam just as the clouds broke entirely, letting through the radiant sun.

            “For Lordaeron!” He shouted, galloping into the fray.

            The undead possessed little concern for their own well-being. They blindly rushed forward, cut down or smashed into oblivion by the living. Still, there was precious little progress being made. The sheer number of undead Kel’thuzad was summoning was staggering. Green lightning still roared from his hands, and every strike called forth another animated corpse.

            Slowly but surely, the dead were beginning to outnumber the living.

            Uther rode through the battle, his valiant warhorse undaunted by the chaos. Skeletal horrors were crushed beneath its hooves, and those it missed Uther saw fit to obliterate with one great swing of his hammer.

            Then out of nowhere an grisly orc corpse swung low with its battle axe, and cut the legs out from Uther’s horse.

            With a shrill whiney, they toppled. Uther hit the ground and rolled, his world a dizzying blur of snow and lightning.

            Despite his age, Uther spun out of the crash with grace. His bones faintly ached from the action, but he righted himself, getting to his feet whilst delivering a skull crushing uppercut to the nearest undead foe. He kept swinging, as if his fury alone would end the entirety of the undead menace.

            For a moment, he lost himself in anger.

            Two soldiers took up position on either side of Jaina, cutting down any undead that managed to get past her spells. So many corpses now lay with icicles sticking out of them, cut down by spells as cold and unforgiving as Northrend itself. When an entire group tried to descend upon them, Jaina thrust her staff forward and a sweeping blast of cold turned the screaming dead to dust.

            But there was a limit to her power, she knew it, as she felt a strange burning in her veins. Her magic was being expended faster and faster, as more dead rose and charged.

            They were doomed, she wasn’t certain Arthas and Uther had realized the truth yet, but it occurred to her.

            The dead did not tire, even if they retreated, these monstrosities would pursue them until they all lay lifeless in the snow.

            Dying cries of soldiers accentuated her point. The snow was beginning to turn red, they were not just losing ground anymore.

            They were losing men.

            There was no way to advance. Arthas found himself continually reinforcing a failing frontline, and there was only so much he could do.

            He was going to fail, just as he did so many times trying to defend his homeland. Only he was going to fail far from home, in this cold, desolate place. He was going to fail, and his friends were going to die. No one would ever find them here. He knew that, who would ever come to Northrend beyond for themselves?

            No one. Only fools come here.

            And he was the biggest fool of all.

            His desperate gaze found Kel’thuzad, still channeling his horrendous spell.

            Desperation turned to fury, the prince’s eyes narrowed and he kicked his heels into the side of his horse.

            He blazed forward, thundering through the undead horde.

            Arthas wasn’t certain where the pikeman came from, but it spelled ruin for his endeavour. His horse caught the spear straight in its chest, and it immediately cartwheeled. Arthas found himself careening through the air above the enemy.

            Arthas grabbed hold of Light’s Vengeance as tight as he could, the faint golden glimmer swarming his eyes once more, only this time swirling wisps of gold travelled down the hammer’s shaft, and infused the mallet.

            Uther watched, eyes wide, as his friend fell out of the sky and into the ranks of undead.

            Snow erupted upwards, thrown from the impact. The undead were tossed aside, a giant holy infused crack in the ice racing down towards Kel’thuzad.

            The necromancer noticed too late, a blast of light struck him, throwing him backwards.

            The tide of undead ceased, but there was still a fight before them.

            Uther fought his way to Arthas, he could see now the prince survived. Arthas was fighting for his life, managing to fend off the dead, but there were limits to his abilities. Uther hurried as best he could, smashing his way through.

            Arthas collapsed, the weight of the enemy toppling him. He grimaced, shielding his head, he heard the snapping jaws, the clacking teeth, _the snarls_.

            They were going to eat him alive.

            Jaina let out a howl that summoned the wind, the sky darkened instantly, clouds building on one another until there was no light. Uther thought that Kel’thuzad had recovered, that somehow he defied the strength of Arthas’ sundering and darkened the world around them. But as he dared to glance back, he caught sight of the young mage.

            Her eyes were consumed with blue energy, the crystal in her staff was throwing arcs of azure into the sky, while her free hand held a beautiful silvery orb within it.

            She tossed the orb into the sky, and razor sharp hail rained down from the sky.

            Uther covered his head, listening to dead as they were torn apart by wicked wind and ice.

            The sky lightning, black clouds simmering to grey, the sun peaked out and the sudden, terrible storm ceased.

            Jaina wobbled on her feet, caught by the kind hands of one of the soldiers guarding her.

            “Milady,” the man grunted, keeping Jaina upright. “Are you alright?”

            “I…” She looked to the soldier, his face hidden by his helmet. “Yes, thank you.”

            Whatever remained of the undead were vanquished quickly as the remaining Lordaeron soldiers advanced to the recovering prince. Arthas stood, wincing faintly, blood running from a gash on his forehead. He turned, his expression that of utter relief, his sights on Jaina as she started over, her horse being lead just behind.

            “Arthas,” she murmured, her weary steps turned to a jog, almost a run as she released the reins of her horse and hurried for him. He caught her, holding her close with one arm, the smile on his lips small but ever present. “Are you alright?”

            He nodded, looking around at the fallen enemy, “Thanks to your spell, yes.”

            Uther approached, patting the man heavily on the shoulder.

            “Good lad, quick thinking with the Light,” Uther noted, impressed. “If not for you, we’d have been overrun shortly.”

            Uther’s words reminded Arthas of his quarry, who he’d travel so far to hunt and slay. His hold on Jaina lessened as he turned, piercing gaze fixed on where his spell struck Kel’thuzad.

            “Let’s not keep the bastard waiting,” Arthas growled, leading the duo and their men over to the descending path.

            Kel’thuzad lay on his back, the skull which kept his face hidden gone, thrown off by the spell. His robes were bloodied, soiled by crimson stains. Blood dribbled from the old man’s mouth, stiffening in his grey beard.

            His eyes haunted Jaina. They glowed still with ethereal might, only the colour…

Kel’thuzad’s eyes radiated a wicked, vile green.

            “Do you think you’ve won, Prince?” Kel’thuzad hissed, shaking his head as he lay in the snow. “Your Light will fade, it always fades.”

            “You won’t admit defeat,” Arthas said, annoyed by the necromancer’s words, “Even at the end? Death rushes to claim you, and still you speak as if you have a chance?”

            Kel’thuzad looked at the trio, bemused by them.

            “Have you forgotten Stratholme?” Kel’thuzad asked rhetorically. “Surely you remember, it was not me who you faced there.”

            Jaina and Uther looked to Arthas, confused.

            “It wasn’t Kel’thuzad?” Jaina questioned, looking sharply to the prince. “But you said...”

            Uther’s expression was suspicious, what would give his friend cause to lie? This could be another ploy by the enemy to try and tear them apart.

            Kel’thuzad sensed weakness, he grinned, teeth red from his blood.

            “Your Highness, did you tell your companions what happened in Stratholme?” His question was pointed, impish, and a flagrant taunt. “What atrocities did the proud Prince Arthas of Lordaeron commit?”

             Arthas hauled the old man up by his robes, his face twisted by rage. His words were malicious murmur.

            “They pale in comparison to what you have done, Kel’thuzad…” Arthas stated, his grip on the necromancer tightening.

            Uther glanced at Jaina.

            Jaina swallowed the lump in her throat.

            “Arthas—“

            Kel’thuzad’s hand rose, black and green energy twisting together before a bolt erupted. It skimmed Arthas’ side, blackening his armour, before it struck Jaina, eliciting a pained shriek.

            Arthas dropped Kel’thuzad to the ground, spinning on his heel.

            Jaina lay in the snow, face contorted in pain. She clutched her abdomen, the leather of her vest shredded by the spell, and the cloth underneath burnt. Her skin was mixture of black, blue, and angry red, inflamed instantly by the demonic spell. Already sickening black veins were spreading, whilst green mist rose from the ugly wound.

But she wasalive.

            Thank the Light she was alive.

            Uther had her, pushing her hands away so he could take a look at the wound. He grimaced.

            “We must return to camp,” he ordered, “she will need a proper healer.”

            Arthas said nothing, his eyes were vacant of anything besides malice. Slowly he turned, inch by steady inch, to face the wounded necromancer who still lay where he’d been dropped. Kel’thuzad was dying, and if looks were evidence enough, he was nearly there. Death was coming to claim him.

            Arthas began forward, grasping the hammer with both hands, he stood above Kel’thuzad, and brought the weapon high over his head.

            Kel’thuzad smiled faintly.

            “You’ll never defeat him, _boy,_ ” he whispered, chuckling. “Lordaeron will suffer.”

            “You shouldn’t have touched her,” Arthas murmured, his voice as cold as the continent on which he stood.

            The fel-taint in Kel’thuzad’s eyes burned brighter.

            “I wonder what he’ll do to her—“

            There was a sickening, wet crunch as Arthas smashed his hammer into Kel’thuzad’s skull. His blood boiled as he delivered the blow, he raised the weapon again, and brought it down once more, another disgusting noise escaping as he slew the necromancer where he lay.

            But he didn’t stop.

            Arthas kept going, over and over, until nothing remained of Kel’thuzad’s head save a bloody mess of broken bone, flesh, and beard.

            The man’s blood splattered all over the prince’s armour.

            Silence loomed, the soldiers looking around for some sort of guidance.

            “Arthas,” Uther’s voice brought him back to reality. “We must leave. Now.”

            Arthas turned swiftly, he no longer held the appearance of a paladin. The necromancer’s blood was across his chest, and Light’s Vengeance had bits of skull and brain matter clinging to it. Jaina’s gaze was hesitant, but it vanished as agony wracked her body and she hissed, clutching her wound tighter.

            “Of course,” Arthas agreed, “men, help Lady Jaina onto her horse, we have to move quickly.”

            **“No, boy.”**

The disembodied voice resonated around the troop. It was thunderous, rumbling and shaking the solders to their core.

            **“Our fight has only just begun…”**

The grey clouds that hadn’t quite cleared from Jaina’s spell-work, blackened. They roiled purple and green, the wind turned to vicious gales, and suddenly it was hard to hear one’s self even think.

            But the voice rung clear.

            **“What was it I told you in Stratholme? Household by household. Lordaeron will fall, it will be culled of all life…”** It laughed, and the sky twisted on itself. **“A scourge of undeath will raze your precious homeland to the ground...”**

Jaina winced, desperately looking to Arthas for explanation.

            “Arthas, who is that?” Her question was answered by a chuckle.

            Uther stepped up next to Arthas, both clung to their weapons like a lifeline.

            **“Lightbringer… surely you feel it now, how this place is absent of your precious Light. Northrend is immune to your antiquated beliefs, free of it and the confines it shackles mortals with.”**

Uther snorted, “Is it? How brave are you, to hide in the shadows and taunt us?” He readied himself, “Show yourself.”

            The storm roaring over them spun downwards, hideous clouds forming a chaotic twister. Slowly though, they could see a form emerge, a being that towered over all those present. As the tornado faded, returning to the sky – a creature stood before them. Great draconic wings unfurling to reveal a humanoid figure, a man in appearance, head bald, eyes brimming with fel energy. A great rack of horns curving backwards.

            _A demon._

“Now, boy, you have a choice…” The demon sneered, “fall back and save your precious mage, and know you will never find me again. Not even as legions of undead purge Lordaeron of life, you will not even glimpse my presence…”

            He tilted his head, smirking.

            “Or, fight me here, in Northrend, and join the corpses that linger under the snow.”

            Uther looked to Arthas desperately.

            “Arthas!” He grabbed the man’s arm. “We must retreat!”

            Arthas uncertain gaze flicked between the demon and his friend. He turned and looked to Jaina.

            She was paler already.

            “Fall back…” He murmured weakly, then louder, failure already beginning to gnaw at his bones, “Fall back! Now!”

            The demon snorted.

            “I warn you, boy. Should you leave Northrend, you will never find me again.”

            The sky dove downwards again, twister enveloping the evil creature, consuming it before the foul magic dissipated, and the sky cleared.

            Arthas gaze was set on the grey sky.

            He failed.


	4. For Lordaeron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The victory over Kel’thuzad is short lived. Revealing himself after the necromancer’s demise, Mal’Ganis vows if Arthas leaves Northrend, there will be nothing the prince can do to save Lordaeron from destruction.  
> Yet with Jaina’s worsening health, Uther’s failing confidence, and the arrival of the King’s emissary Valonforth calling for the Prince’s return, fate it seems is stealing Arthas’ chance at true vengeance…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like always, thank you guys for the feedback! It's awesome to read what you think. ^_^

**IV CHAPTER FOUR IV**

**FOR LORDAERON**

 

Their encampment was sullen, their victory over Kel’thuzad ruined by the appearance of a demon, one that promised the prince he’d destroy Lordaeron if they didn’t attempt pursue him. The guards patrolled in somber silence, muttering to one another about what was going on. Had the prince lied to them? None appeared to think so, why would Arthas lie? He was a good man.

            Many came to think that this demon had destroyed Stratholme, and Arthas never spoke of it because he failed to stop the creature. That’s what the men told themselves, it was a lie that kept them warm in a strange sense. It fought off the growing discontent.

            Northrend, as if sensing the mood, had turned impossibly cold and inhospitable. The wind howled, shaking tents, rattling weapon racks. The snow blew so fiercely it may as well have been glass, slicing into whatever exposed flesh it could.

            _The Righteous_ was repaired, though it sat farther out then the other vessels. That was the good news.

            The only good news, as far as Jaina was concerned.

            She lay in the medical tent, a cloth separating her from another patient. She’d been quiet since they left the outskirts of the bone crater, lost in thought. She tried to discern why Arthas would lie, as she was not one of the many soldiers so desperate to believe he wouldn’t lie. She knew he would, he _had._ That creature spoke to Arthas with too much familiarity. She wondered now, with alarming frequency, exactly what transpired in Stratholme.

            She recalled his suggestion, his purge to end the plague once and for all. It had killed her to leave him then, to abandon him at such a time of need. But she, and Uther, held no desire to be a part of such a terrible act. She’d believed the statement made by their absence would have been clear cut.

            Culling Stratholme was the wrong decision.

            Arthas was a paladin, a man of the Light, someone devoted wholly to the good.

            He’d never… he wouldn’t…

            Jaina’s face bore her disappointment with herself, she looked away at the tent wall.

            Her naivety had blinded her.

            Her wound ached, it was wrapped, bandages infused with some sort of healing magic she’d never master. It stung, and if she moved it would cause her far more pain than worth the gesture.

            She was bedridden for the next few days.

            Jaina heard Arthas’ voice, bidding the doctors to give them a moment. Despite her anger, she was nervous. She didn’t want to argue with Arthas, in truth she wanted to go home…

            She wished she was in Dalaran. Not here, not in Northrend fighting necromancers, undead, and a bloody demon. She wished…

            She stopped her dreary thoughts as he pulled back the curtain and lay eyes on her. He hadn’t shaved yet, his hair was pulled back into a tail, his armour was gone. He stood before her in a heavy coat, his clothing thick and warm, the best protection a prince could have against the weather here.

            Jaina knew how she appeared. She was feverish, tired, suffering from overexerting herself and Kel’thuzad’s spell.

            “Jaina—“

            “Who was he?” Jaina snapped, interrupting the prince. She was furious and not even the weakness that plagued her could subdue her temper. “That demon.”

            “I—“ He faltered when she interrupted him again.

            “Don’t lie,” she insisted, her fury mixed with desperation. “Tell me the truth, Arthas.”

            He scowled, he didn’t care to be interrupted, let alone twice. He hadn’t lied, never once had a lie in regards to their pursuit been uttered.

            He’d simply omitted some details.

            Details that were proving to be quite important.

            “His name is Mal’Ganis,” Arthas began, “Kel’thuzad served him, I imagine he was the one who turned the mage onto this path of darkness…”

            “What did he mean when he spoke of Stratholme?” She questioned, “’Household by household’?”

            Arthas’ gaze fell, he moved to a chair, taking a seat. For a long moment he was quiet, clasping his hands together as he mulled over the memories.

            He could hear the screaming once more, people begging him to stop, some claiming they hadn’t eaten anything infected. Children crying, the smell of smoke and the heat of raging fires.

            Then the dark laughter of Mal’Ganis, and the snarling of his undead.

            “Stratholme…” He murmured, “I thought originally it was beset by Kel’thuzad, it wasn’t until after I was alone, that Mal’Ganis revealed himself. He was turning the entire city into his thralls. I thought about what you and Uther said, I truly did.”

            The silence between them was tense. They’d abandoned him when he needed them most, and he’d betrayed their trust.

            Jaina’s expression was impossible to read. She simply stared at Arthas, trying to process what he was admitting.

            “Think me a monster if you must,” Arthas’ voice rose, “but you were not swarmed by undead _children._ You did not hear their mothers shriek as their own children became ravenous and devoured them.” He looked to her, a cold acceptance in his eyes. “I did what had to be done.”

            “Why are we here?” Jaina asked, her voice empty of anger, sadness, disappointment. She was numb.

            “To end the undead threat,” he reassured her, though it did nothing of the sort.

            Her eyes narrowed, a hint of her anger returned.

            “Why are we here, Arthas?” she reiterated her question, words carrying a hint of venoms “Were you even hunting Kel’thuzad?”

            His hesitation was all she needed to see. She turned her gaze away, back to the tent wall.

            “No,” Jaina muttered, bowing her head as she realized the truth, “No, you wouldn’t drag so many men so far for a reckless mage – even one such as Kel’thuzad.”

            She hated how naïve she was.

            “We were always searching for Mal’Ganis,” she concluded, the poison in her tone now oozing from every word. “You lied, to Uther, to _me,_ for your damn crusade.”

            “You heard him,” Arthas protested, desperate for her to understand. “He will destroy Lordaeron!”

            “Will he?” she snarled, sitting up, hissing out words despite the agony her body shuddered with, “Or is he just taunting you? Playing on your damn pride?!”

            Her words struck deep, her expression was a mixture of anguish and fury. Her nostrils flared as she fought to stay sitting upright.

            “He fled! He ran back to Northrend, this Light forsaken continent on the edge of the world!” she continued, her breathing worsening, “Why do you think he did that?”

            Arthas was silent, his eyes were darkening with anger. How could she not understand?

            “He lured you to this place! He wanted you to come here! What hope does half a battalion have against thousands of corpses?!” That was all that strength she possessed, she fell back in the bed. Eyelids fluttering as she fought against sheer exhaustion and pain.

            “I will do anything to protect my homeland,” Arthas stated, his words were as icy as his gaze, “My crusade, as you call it, it will not end until Mal’Ganis is dead and the threat to Lordaeron is vanquished.”

            Jaina hadn’t the will to fight sleep any longer. She let her eyes close, welcoming the reprieve from her fury.

            Arthas stood slowly, watching her for a moment longer. He turned his back to her, pausing only briefly when the desire to glance at her stayed his feet. Was she truly turning her back on him? Thinking that this whole endeavour was wrong?

            How? Had he not shown her that the true threat still lingered?

            He couldn’t be wrong, for if he was wrong, then everything he’d done was unjustified.

            “Forgive me,” Arthas muttered, denying himself even a glimpse of his love.

            She didn’t understand.

            But she would in time.  

            He walked forward once more, heavy steps carrying him out into the frigid night.

 

She dreamt of snow.

            Jaina trudged through the drifts alone, cloaked wrapped around herself as tight as she could manage. She’d made her way down the crater wall, careful not to disturb the dead. The blood from the battle was long gone, frozen and buried in the blizzard’s wake. The wind was a gale, threatening to blow her over, or simply pick her right off her feet.

            The bones of long dead dragons loomed over her, casting eerie shadows on her path.

            Her foot caught something underneath the snow and she stumbled, managing to stay upright. She frowned, wary gaze falling, searching for what she tripped over.

            The wind blew harshly, snow before her ebbing away, slowly revealing what was hidden.

            Jaina felt dread coil around her heart. Emerging from the cold grave was a body, skin pale, eyes open and lifeless.

            Uther the Lightbringer. His hammer was just out of his reach, one hand stretched forth in an attempt to grab hold. His armour was ruined, bronze chipped away, chest plate dented and scarred. His empty gaze stared up at the unseen sky.

            The wind continued to howl, revealing dozens of bodies.

            Jaina walked forward slowly, unable to wake. The wind carried whispers of the dead, their last words or thoughts.

            Slowly coming into sight, a mound of bodies. Faces twisted in dying expressions of horror and agony.

            And sitting atop the pile, hunched over in the dark contemplation was Arthas. His face shrouded in shadow, hands clasped together as he had when he visited her in the medical tent.

            “Arthas…” she whispered, garnering his attention.

            He sat on top the pile of corpses as if they were some sort of twisted throne.

            “What have you done?” she asked, desperate to understand.

            Silently he rose, he descended the pile with heavy steps. The wind blew back the hood of his cloak, revealing his face.

            His were eyes empty of the warmth and love she so often felt. Even when they fought, he’d never looked at her with such terrible intent. Even if he was wrong, she could see in his eyes that he was only human, that he was trying.

            But there nothing familiar in his gaze now.

            “Arthas—“

            A sudden agony erupted in her abdomen, her eyes shooting wide open. She gasped, staring into the prince’s cold eyes in utter shock. Slowly her gaze fell, down to her stomach, down to where a blade now stuck out of her. She didn’t recognize it, couldn’t make out its details. But it burned with the bite of horrid frost.

            She looked to Arthas again, tasting blood at the back of her mouth.

            “Jaina…” he whispered, his voice _different._ It carried within it a resonance she couldn’t place, “Wake up.”

            She faltered.

            “Jaina wake up.” His voice was no longer his own, it was older.

            The pain faded, the winds picked up and blinded her to the corpses.

            “Jaina!”

            That was Uther’s voice.

            The dream vanished, Jaina’s eyes opened and she sat up – to her immediate regret. Her abdomen howled in displeasure, surges of pain shooting through her as she yelped and fell back. She tried to blink away the nightmare, to push away the cold grave of that dragon pit. Yet every time she closed her eyes she saw Arthas’.

            They glared at her with contempt, and carried with them a strange dull glow. As if the frigidity of the artic thrived just underneath his skin.

            Weakly she looked to Uther, confused.

            “What?” She groaned, trying to sit up once more, “What’s going on?”

            Hhe placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

            “Calm yourself, My Lady,” Uther urged, “you were lost in your dreams. That’s all.”

            She realized then that he was in his armour, she couldn’t hardly make it out with the lamps and candles in the tent dosed.

            What time was it?

            “Uther?” she suspected, lowering her voice as her she watched him press a finger to his lips in signal. Her next words were a whisper. “What’s wrong?”

            “We’re leaving,” he explained in a quiet voice, “we cannot remain in Northrend, least of all you.”

            For a moment, there was a fluttering of desperate hope. Arthas had come to his senses.

            But if he had…

            “Why the secrecy?” Jaina asked, heart sinking.

            “Arthas has refused any notion of retreat,” Uther explained grimly.  

            Jaina’s lack of surprise was supplemented by failing hope and disappointment.

            “We can’t leave him, Uther,” Jaina argued, her fury over his lies not able to overcome her desire to somehow save him from this madness. Lordaeron would not fall in a day, they could prepare for Mal’Ganis’ return. “We could—“

            “No, Jaina.” He didn’t use her title, they hadn’t the time to debate, “I apologize, My Lady, but he will not see reason.”

            “You want me to abandon him?” she sputtered, unbelieving, “Leave him in Northrend?”

            “By the Light woman, we’re not leaving him _alone,_ ” Uther stated, brows knitting sharply downward as his frown deepened. “I would not risk so many men to be labelled deserters. No, I’m getting _you_ out of here.”

            “I’ll heal.”

            “Not fast enough,” Uther replied, raising a hand and waving a few men over. “Come now, before his Highness realizes.”

 

Betrayal.

            It was a knife that cut deeper than any sword or lance could. It burned worse than a thousand fires. It brought Arthas to his knees faster than the foulest poisons.

            Jaina was gone, as was Uther.

            He tasted ash in his mouth, he cared not for the breakfast that’d been prepared for him. He sat in silence in his tent, brooding over his failures, over the abandonment he felt. He doubted his resolve, he doubted the campaign, he had come to doubt nearly everything. Northrend was winning, he’d decided. It and the evil here chased away his love and his closest friend.

            They had snuck away during the night, stolen _The Righteous,_ and fled.

Jaina could not have left on her own, which meant Uther was to blame.

            It didn’t matter, if Jaina truly wished not to go, she would have sounded the alarm. No, he’d lost her. His lies cost him dearly, and now their disappearance was troubling the men. Men who so desperately wanted to go home. He could almost feel their hope, not to win, not to find Mal’Ganis, but for their sad little prince to tuck his tail between his legs and go home.

            His father sent word, he wanted Arthas to return to Lordaeron. He too wanted the prince to give up his crusade for justice.

            “Sire,” Captain Falric greeted, entering with a prompt salute, “I apologize; I do not mean to disturb you but…”

            Arthas’ gaze did not rise, he kept staring at his plate.

            “Valonforth is stirring the men to leave,” the prince finished for him in a bitter murmur.

            “Yes, Your Highness.”

            Slowly, Arthas looked to the soldier. He’d always been loyal, he and Captain Marwyn. Neither had left the prince’s side since the very beginning.

            Did even his most loyal men now faltered?

            “Do you believe in what I’m doing?” Arthas asked then, watching Falric.

            “Sire?”

            “Hunting Mal’Ganis,” Arthas supplied, “coming to Northrend. Everything. Do you believe it was the right decision?”

            Falric recalled all the horrors they’d seen. The undead, the grotesque monsters that Kel’thuzad and Mal’Ganis commanded.

            So many innocent lives lost.

            “Yes, Your Highness,” Falric bowed his head, “I do, as does Marwyn.”

            A thought came to mind.

            One that made something inside him twist uncomfortably. Falric and Marwyn could rally the troops, but they would have little success if the option to leave was presented. Arthas knew Valonforth was seeing to it that they all prepare for the long journey home. His soldiers were good men, but they were weary, and Valonforth was preying on that.

            Arthas’ troops needed to be invigorated once more. They needed something to fight for. So far from Lordaeron, they could no longer see the lives they were saving. All they saw here was snow and ice. All they heard was rumour, gossip, and now, Valonforth’s orders from King Terenas himself.

            To pack up and go home.

            Arthas clasped his hands together.

            “I will need your aid, Falric,” Arthas began, “and your absolute trust.”

            “Of course, Your Highness.” Falric stepped forward, eager. He needed a mission, he needed something to get his mind off the strangeness of this miserable land.

            “What ships remain?”

            “All save _The Righteous_ , Your Highness… Beg your pardon, Sire, but is it true what they say?” Falric risked his standing with the prince for an answer, “That the Lightbringer and Lady Proudmoore stole the vessel? That they deserted us?”

            “No,” Arthas was quick to lie, and his firm confidence made it impossible distinguish it from the truth. “No, Uther expressed concern over Lady Jaina’s condition. I kept it quiet, but she wasn’t improving as best we hoped.”

            Falric bowed his head in understanding, “I see; I apologize, Your Highness.”

            “See to it the men know that they did not flee, but rather were given leave,” Arthas ordered, “but first – when is Valonforth insisting we leave?”

            “Tomorrow afternoon.”  

            “I need you to gather your most trusted men, no more than six,” Arthas commanded, “you must be able to trust implicitly, is that clear?”

            “Yes, Your Highness.”

            “Good.” Arthas reached for his fork finally, his appetite returning, “Gather them quickly.”

            Falric saluted once more, pivoting on his heel to exit. Arthas watched him leave as he brought a morsel to his lips.

            There would be no retreat, he’d decided. No option to return to Lordaeron, not until the task was complete. Not until Mal’Ganis lay dead as his feet.

            He smirked faintly, abolishing the doubt in his mind, pushing away the thoughts that Jaina and Uther may be right.

            “For Lordaeron…” He vowed, just as he’d done before culling Stratholme.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter isn't going to be so cold guys. Let us travel to a place thats warm, beautiful, and 10 years into the future...


	5. The Land of Eternal Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst a season of festivals, the Quel’dorei pay tribute to the glorious sun with magical celebration! The streets are brimming with people, King Anasterian delivers daily sermons proclaiming the glory of the high elves, and their mastery of the arcane.  
> Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon, has long grown tired of festivities. In her office, she drowns out the cheers. She’s longed shirked the celebrations her people are so fond of, in favour of keeping Quel’thalas safe.  
> A duty many think is unnecessary, after all, who would dare attack the Quel’dorei?  
> Yet, a letter from Ranger-Lord Nathanos speaks of a problem at the border, refugees from Lordaeron claim disaster has struck, and it has all the hallmarks of the plague that blighted the kingdom 10 years ago…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys again for the support! I am so sorry this chapter took longer to appear, I got really sick, and was out of commission for a week. x.x I've been playing catch up on everything!
> 
> As promised, this chapter is going to take you somewhere warmer. c: Is it ridiculous in my mind, that the first four chapters of this story were sort-of an extended prologue?

** V CHAPTER FIVE V **

**The Land of Eternal Spring**

 

This time of year was always one of celebration in Quel’Thalas. There were a multitude of festivals paying homage to the sun and the wondrous warmth it bathed the country in. In every city the streets were decorated with banners, enchanted streamers danced in the air as if they were wyrms, and pulsing orbs of light lit up the shadows of night.

            Silvermoon was no exception. And nearly every day King Anasterian pronounced another rousing speech praising the Quel’dorei as the most beautiful and powerful people on the whole of Azeroth.

            The speeches bored Sylvanas Windrunner, but she didn’t disagree with him.

            She was the Ranger-General, responsible for the defense of the country and her peoples. Not once had she failed, and never had any threat ever been deemed great enough for her to spare it a second thought.

Or at least, that was the persona she let on.

            In truth, Sylvanas spent many hours of her days concerning herself with any whisper of a threat. For the most part, it was the trolls. Wild beasts that lurked in the old ruins, often perceived as nothing more than a nuisance she’d yet to annihilate. Though the king would have the Amani wiped off the face of the continent, Sylvanas stayed her hand.

            It was easy to forget that there were children residing in those tribes, and while Sylvanas had no qualms over slaying adults – children were something else entirely.

            So Sylvanas stood alone in her office atop the western tower of Sunfury Palace, standing next to large window, letting the breeze play with her moon-pale blonde hair. Her ears faintly perked as music reached them, a band was down in the bazaar below, entertaining the shopping masses who’d come to enjoy the beautiful day.

            Her grey eyes, carrying the faint blue glow all her people possessed, were fixed on the missive in her hand. Her outfit was standard, brown leathers, green cloth and cloak, as neutral as the expression she wore.

“Tell me,” a familiar, impish voice drew Sylvanas’ attention away from letter, “Does the Ranger-General ever leave her office?”

             Vereesa stood in the doorway, her hair silver, eyes bright and cheerful. Unlike Sylvanas, she was clad in the glorious deep blue and gold ceremonial outfit demanded by the king. Black leathers, with a cobalt breastplate accented with shimmering gold effortlessly upholding the Light-be-damned imaginary persona the Farstriders were supposed to have.

Her youngest sister had long ago decided Sylvanas’ disinterest in the celebrations to be the result of her being dull. Sylvanas, of course, pointed to Alleria shirking the Ranger-General title and responsibilities, thrusting them upon the middle sister unwarranted.

It was lie, of course. Sylvanas quite enjoyed her job, and was very goal-orientated, thus having an actual life took second place to… well just about everything. But the decades-old joke persisted.

            “Perhaps she would,” Sylvanas’ gaze fell back to the paper as she responded, teasing Vereesa with her words, “If her little sister would do her job once in a while.”

            Vereesa snorted, shutting the door behind her, arms crossing as she approached Sylvanas.

            “Honestly, have you actually left this place?” Vereesa questioned, “You can’t be that busy, no one is foolish enough to strike at Quel’Thalas.”

            Sylvanas smirked, giving half a nod in acknowledgment.

            “You sound like our king,” Sylvanas responded dryly, “’who would dare oppose the Quel’dorei, Masters of the Arcane?’”

            Vereesa returned the smile, taking a seat in Sylvanas’ chair, pushing her hood back.

            “Well, who would?” The younger of the two asked.

            Sylvanas glanced at her sister, one slender brow quirking upwards.

            “You tell me, Little Moon,” Sylvanas commanded, though her tone was hardly firm, “I heard you were thinking of taking the captain’s exam.”

            Vereesa scowled, “Does Halduron tell you everything?”

            Sylvanas chuckled, “Yes, but he wasn’t the one who told me.”

            “Who did?”

Her sister’s expression was priceless; she was so easy to rile up. “Nathanos.”

            Vereesa huffed, leaning back, pouting, “He promised he wouldn’t.”

            “Yes, he mentioned that too.”

            “Light damn him,” Vereesa grumbled, examining her gloves as she mulled over the betrayal.

            “Well?”

            Vereesa looked to her sister, baffled.

            Sylvanas’ mirth could not be missed.

            “Who would threaten Quel’Thalas?” Her tone was playful at least, though Vereesa could see it in Sylvanas’ eyes. She was _actually_ testing her.

            “The Amani,” Vereesa answered, ears wilting slightly as she thought of others who might pose a threat, “Orcs, though there aren’t any this far north…”

She risked a glance at Sylvanas, “That we know of.”

            Sylvanas smiled approvingly.

            “I suppose humans? But we’re allies to Lordaeron and Gilneas.”

            “Do not confuse indifference with allegiance,” Sylvanas corrected, “We were once a part of the Alliance, but not any longer. We may not be at war with Lordaeron, but that does not make them an ally.”

            “We’re no longer part of the Alliance?” Vereesa asked, confused by the statement. Ask any elf and they would claim the Quel’dorei were friends of Humanity.

            “We’re a member by title only,” Sylvanas admitted, “King Anasterian has seen to it that the Quel’dorei haven’t answered a single summon by the Alliance in decades. Our people volunteer to venture outside of Quel’Thalas, but there haven’t been marching orders in some time.”

            “Why doesn’t the public know?”

            “That is not my decision to make,” Sylvanas replied coolly, her disapproval clear. “I simply obey my king’s orders.”

            Vereesa’s gaze flicked to the paper in Sylvanas’ hand, “And what are your orders?”

            Sylvanas for a moment was confused, frowning briefly as she glanced down at paper.

            “Oh,” she shook her head, “no, this is not from the king. It’s a letter from Nathanos, requesting my presence at the border.”

            Vereesa tilted her head.

            “It seems there’s a problem.” Sylvanas’ answer lacked all the explanation Vereesa wanted. She grunted, spurring the Ranger-General to continue. “There are people claiming Lordaeron is no longer safe.”

            Vereesa was suspicious. “Did we not have people saying that nearly a decade ago? Something about a plague?”

            “Yes,” Sylvanas said. “I had thought Lordaeron done with their crisis for a while.”

            Vereesa snickered, “Where would humanity they be without their crises?”

            “I don’t know,” Sylvanas retorted, smirking at her sister. “At peace, victorious over the orcs, masters of at least _one_ school of magic?”

            Vereesa grinned, “They are optimistic though.”

            Sylvanas rolled her eyes, “Yes, brilliant. They’re absolutely useless at everything, but at least they’re cheery about it.”

            “Are you going?”

            “I am,” Sylvanas replied. “Nathanos would not request I join him without due cause.”

            “Is he not biased?” Vereesa observed thoughtfully, “He’s human, and is he not from Lordaeron? I would worry if there were whispers of Quel’Thalas being under threat.”

            Sylvanas gave her sister a sharp look. Nathanos was her closest friend, though she’d never admit to it and none would probably guess. What Quel’dorei in their right mind would think of a human beyond anything save a friendly acquaintance?

            Vereesa was one of the few that knew how close Sylvanas was to the only human ranger.

            “I will not throw aside Nathanos’ concerns because he’s human,” she replied pointedly, giving her younger sister disciplinary glare.

            Vereesa’s expression was nearly unreadable, but her concern was evident enough, “I didn’t mean to imply his concerns were lesser…”

            In truth, it was not Vereesa’s comments that plucked at Sylvanas’ irritation. She’d received word on Alleria, and the information was troubling.

            “It’s…” She hesitated, what would she tell Vereesa? Alleria was hunting orcs, yet their elder sister’s drive for vengeance appeared to be blinding her. Sylvanas read of how Alleria was striking at any clan, regardless if they were violent or not. Then, just as she always managed, Alleria vanished.

            It appeared the eldest Windrunner was lost to them truly this time.

            “It’s just been a long day,” Sylvanas lied, forcing herself to smile at her little sister. She didn’t need to know what Alleria was up to, or that she’d disappeared once again. “I’m sorry.”

            Vereesa smiled in return.

 

The journey to the border was a fortnight of quiet Sylvanas appreciated. The farther she drew from Silvermoon, the easier she could breathe. Gone were the constant celebrations, the needless speeches, and king’s constant missives droning on about appearances. They were replaced by a quiet venture through the Eversong woods, the peace broken only when Sylvanas approached another town.

            Yet these towns were still quieter than Silvermoon. Their celebrations were somehow less trying on the Ranger-General’s nerves. Fireworks that sparkled and danced in the night air were the only truly boisterous things that reminded Sylvanas of the grand city, but she actually _enjoyed_ the simpler displays.

            She loved fireworks.

            Asha, her hawkstrider, as black as a moonless night, did not share her enthusiasm. Trained to charge headlong into battle, to fight through magical explosions, and be deaf to the enemies’ warcries – yet Sylvanas could feel the avian beneath her tense. To Asha there was little difference between a firework and a witch doctor’s fireball exploding.

            The nights Sylvanas watched the fireworks, she boarded Asha at a local stable. There was no need for the bird to suffer.

            But now, as they rode over the last hill and came to the border where Quel’Thalas met Lordaeron, there were no celebrations. Instead there were soldiers in dazzling cream, white, and crimson armour, standing firmly in the center of the road, barring passage. Along the treeline were rangers, their armour not ceremonious, but rather practical and worn from their days of watch.

            Sylvanas watched as a Farstrider escorted a human woman with two small boys back to the road and pointed for them to return to their side. She quirked a brow at the sight, clicking her tongue so Asha would begin forward once more. She hadn’t seen Nathanos as of yet, but there was no doubt he was around.

            Various soldiers saluted her, and the few elven civilians present nodded in respect before they hurried aside.

            The humans watched her with fascination, peering around the guards that refused to allow them through.

            “Ranger-General,” Halduron greeted her, giving a quick, and perfect salute, “I apologize, I only just got word of your arrival.”

            Sylvanas’ expression was of indifference. She hadn’t announced herself, how would he know?

            “How many are there?” She asked, tilting her head as she watched the humans.

            “At least a dozen families,” Halduron explained, looking to them. “They all arrived with the same story.”

            “Which is?”

            The young man hesitated, shimmering blue eyes uncertain. Sylvanas’ cool gaze hardened. She expected an answer from her captain.

            “Well?” She insisted.

            “They claim that the undead are attacking their villages.” The answer was wary, as if Halduron feared her reaction or doubted the truth of the claims himself.

            Nathanos had summoned her to the border due to rumours of the _undead_? His missive hadn’t mentioned the nature of the issue, simply that it warranted her attention. For a moment, she wondered if Vereesa’s concerns were valid after all.

            To prevent the humans from overhearing, she next spoke in Thalassian.

            _“The undead?”_ She asked, wishing for whatever clarification Halduron could provide.

            _“Yes, Ma’am,”_ Halduron responded. _“Most are not from villages who were attacked, rather they caught word of sickness spreading nearby, then fled.”_

_“How do the supposed undead factor in?”_

            _“They say ten years ago a plague swept through Lordaeron. People would fall ill, die, then rise shortly after to attack the living,”_ her captain explained. _“None ventured to see what actually happened. They simply ran.”_

Sylvanas clenched her jaw.

            “Did any of these people _see_ the undead?” Her frustration was clear, her tone firm, and calculating.

            “I doubt it, Ma’am.”

            “Doubt isn’t a fact,” Sylvanas stated flatly, giving the man a quick, but disappointed, glance. “Question everyone.”

            She turned Asha away from her captain. She’d find Nathanos and demand an explanation from him.

            “Ranger-General,” Halduron called her attention back to him. He glanced at the people being stopped by the soldiers. _“What about the humans?”_

Sylvanas glanced at them, cool gaze analyzing them.

            _“They stay in Lordaeron,”_ she ordered, _“has there been no word from Capital City, or King Terenas?”_

Halduron shook his head, _“Unless Lord Marris knows more, but otherwise no.”_

Nathanos sat at his desk, thick brows creased downwards in a deep frown, his lips pressed thin as he mulled over the numerous pieces of parchment before him. The only human Farstrider, and one who reached the rank of Ranger-Lord. His hair was a deep brown, kept as neat as the man was able, though it’d long become apparent he would never be able to present himself as polished as elves such as Halduron, who possessed the flowing blond locks common amongst the Quel’dorei, and never had a strand out of place. As well kept the human maintained his armour, and clothing, they did not shine in the same manner Halduron’s did.

            Sylvanas found it all too amusing. She could not discern what exactly made Nathanos lack the gleam so many of her own kind exhibited. She wondered if it was the inherent magic her people possessed. The Quel’dorei weaved it into everything, perhaps the subtle enchantments were simply reacting with the magic in Halduron’s blood. It was the only reasonable solution she could come up with.

Nathanos hadn’t yet noticed her, making the Ranger-General smirk.

 “You summon me to very edge of Quel’Thalas,” Sylvanas began, crossing her arms as his surprised gaze rose to meet hers. “Then have the gall not to address your Ranger-General?” She tsked, feigning offence. “You have some nerve, _Ranger-Lord.”_

Nathanos for the briefest of seconds appeared concerned. Then his lips curved into a friendly smile, and he stood.

“Forgive me, Ranger-General,” he began, beamused. “I hadn’t thought you would perceive my absence as a slight.”

She snorted.

“Actually doing your paperwork?” She asked, uncrossing her arms as she approached. “Surely that cannot be.”

Nathanos chuckled, “No, rest assured the paperwork is not being done. Rather, I’m reviewing the few messages we’ve exchanged with our neighbours.”

She leaned against the table, ears faintly flinching in curiosity. It wasn’t something Sylvanas would normally permit in front of others, but Nathanos had long ceased to be a mere acquaintance or soldier under her command.

“Looking for hints as to what’s going on?” She queried, watching him nod in response as he sat back down.

His expression told her it wasn’t going well.

“The last official communication we received from Lordaeron, was an invitation by King Terenas to celebrate the return of his son,” Nathanos explained with a sigh. “That was months ago, even before the prince’s arrival.”

Sylvanas feigned interest, Nathanos was from Lordaeron. “I thought Prince Arthas perished? Sailed north and vanished, didn’t he?”

“So went the rumour,” Nathanos’ gaze rose, he looked entirely unsure. “There is nothing to explain how the king learnt of his son’s survival, I imagine he would have explained that at the ceremony.”

“When is it?” Sylvanas briefly entertained the notion of sending someone.

“It was a month ago. The rumours said he pursued the source of the plague beyond the North Sea. Perhaps one of his men brought it back with them…”

“It’s a possibility,” Sylvanas murmured, sliding a paper closer to herself, “A shame if it’s true. He sought the plague’s destruction for a decade, only to bring it back in the end.”

Her ranger-lord nodded in agreement, but said nothing.

Sylvanas’ smirk was faint.

“You’re unconvinced.” The statement drew him out of whatever thoughtful lull he’d been lost in.

“I… yes, I am,” he confessed, “Something isn’t right, Sylvanas.”

Whatever her response might have been, it never left her lips. They both heard the swish of the tent’s flap being pushed aside.

Halduron entered quickly, watching as they both straightened. The Ranger-General stood with the rigidity the captain was familiar with and Nathanos rose from his seat once more.

“Ranger-General,” he saluted Sylvanas first, then Nathanos, “Ranger-Lord. Forgive the intrusion, but a delegate from Silvermoon has arrived.”

 The two glanced at one another.

Sylvanas’ eyes narrowed.

“Who?”


	6. The Delegate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions rise as the King’s emissary arrives on the border, conveying his displeasure at the presence of Nathanos Marris, the only human ranger. It seems more than one elf is voicing concerns that Nathanos may fail in doing what is best for Quel’Thalas.  
> The situation is made worse by differing opinions. The commonly held opinion is that the humans must stay on their side of the border, and be turned away. Whilst others voice concerns over such actions.  
> Ranger-General Sylvanas is caught in the middle. Does she disregard the standing order that the humans must remain in Lordaeron, and permit them entry? Or does she follow the King’s command, and turn the growing crowd of refugees away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D I am back from vacation! It's so nice, and warm! I love it. 
> 
> Thank you guys for the feedback as always, and I'm so happy you're all enjoying it! ❤︎

** VI CHAPTER SIX VI **

**The Delegate**

The border between Quel’Thalas, and Lordaeron was mostly wilderness. The forests were dense, often too thick to be passable by any sort of wagon. What roads there were were little more than dirt tracks, with the exception of the bridge that crossed over the wide river that served as an unofficial crossing. The bridge was a marvelous elven construction: A deck and swooping arches constructed out of white stone, with parapets topped with red steel shaped and colour by magic. There was one refuge on either side, notably empty save for a few soldiers looking for a reprieve from turning back humans.

            The bridge, named the Alliance Gate for the supposed friendship between the two countries, was still awash in high elven footmen. No humans, save merchants with the proper papers, were being permitted across. But their wagons and caravans were all being inspected for stowaways.

            It was a sight which bothered Sylvanas, and she had no doubt in her mind it bothered Nathanos. She imagined it irked Halduron as well, but he made no comment as he led the Ranger-General and Ranger Lord past the crowd of humans, towards a fantastical hawkstrider-drawn coach drawing up on Quel’Thalas’ side of the crossing

            It was masterfully crafted, of that there was no question. A dark redwood made up the coach’s body, with red, and gold top railings, with the same colours accenting the driver’s box. Thick crimson curtains were drawn on the windows, not permitting the encroaching three from viewing who waited inside. The driver was a young woman, vibrant red hair bound back into a long tail. She nodded to the trio, reins to the four bird-team still in her hands.

            The coach door flung open before any of them could speak, vibrantly glowing blue eyes glaring at Sylvanas as a man stepped out, rising up to his full height as if he were the king himself.

            Sylvanas  _almost_ frowned at the man. His robes were expensive, impeccable colours undoubtedly enchanted to never fade. They were a shimmering black, lined with gold and silver. He also wore a cloak, deep crimson, with a clasp bearing the winged insignia of the Quel’dorei magisters.

            But what stood out the most was the mage’s hat. The brim was long and narrow, coupled with a feather to accent it. It reminded Sylvanas of something a swashbuckler would wear. It sat low, shrouding the man’s face partly.

            “Ranger-General Sylvanas.” He spoke with an air of superiority, his thin lips curving into a cocky smirk, “I hadn’t thought I’d see you so far from palace, did His Majesty send you out here as well?”

            “Magister Drathir,” Sylvanas greeted him, tone even, “it seems we’re both caught unawares,” she lied easily, “the king did not tell me you were coming.”

            “He didn’t tell anyone,” Halduron stated, his tone hinting at his displeasure.

            “Please,” the magister cooed, taking Sylvanas’ hand, and placing a light kiss up to it, “there is no need for formalities, my name is Dar’khan.”

            She didn’t know him personally, she recognized him from the few meetings the military and the magisters attended together. Vereesa had thought him cute, she recalled. Sylvanas hadn’t agreed.

            She still didn’t.

            “Forgive me, Magister,” Nathanos spoke carefully, with utter respect, “but why are you here? I hadn’t thought the border a magical concern.”

            The look Dar’khan gave Nathanos was a mixture of everything the human had come to expect from most elves. Disgust, disapproval, and contempt, hidden behind thinly veiled politeness. He knew Dar’khan, like many Quel’dorei, would never _speak_ of his disapproval, not to Nathanos himself. But it remained, and would ever be present in all their interactions.

            “Ranger Lord Marris,” Dar’khan replied coolly, voice laced with scorn, “I’m not surprised you’re here, I imagine stationing the only human ranger at the border a boon. Who better to understand human paranoia?”

            He stepped down finally, even his footfalls carrying a flair of drama. Now, he stood at eye-level with Sylvanas, and _shorter_ than Nathanos. Still, that did not appear to dismay Dar’khan. He regarded the human with little respect.

            “The border is not a magical concern,” he admitted lightly, “but I was sent by King Sunstrider to oversee this predicament. His Majesty was apprehensive about a human properly conveying Quel’dorei interests during this situation.”

            “Magister,” Sylvanas’ tone had lost the neutrality she once possessed, “You would do well to remember Ranger Lord Marris is your superior -- unless Grand Magister Salonar has seen fit to promote you -- but as I haven’t received a single missive of your accomplishments _, stay your tongue_.”

            Dar’khan shot a heated look to Sylvanas, yet he said nothing. He glanced to Halduron, whose expression was similarly firm.

            “I… apologize, Ranger Lord.” He hardly graced Nathanos with an ounce of recognition, “and Ranger-General, if I offended, it wasn’t my intention.”

            Nothing was said in response for a moment, until Sylvanas moved the conversation along.

            “I cannot forbid you from the border,” she admitted, though there was no sign of her losing ground to the mage, “Not without due cause.” Her brows knit downward as she glared at Dar’khan, “But know, Drathir, you’ve already tested my patience once.”

            Dar’khan’s confidence wavered, he bowed his head.

            “I apologize—“

            Sylvanas said nothing as she turned her back to the man, followed by Halduron and Nathanos. The last thing she needed was a prissy magister lurking about the encampment, instilling doubt in the troops about her Ranger Lord.

            She paused when she heard an additional set of footsteps and glanced over her shoulder.

            Dar’khan had joined them.

            Her eyes narrowed.

            “I did not lie about His Majesty’s concerns,” Dar’khan explained, looking between the three uneasily, “I must be involved in decisions regarding the border, and Lordaeron, so I may aptly report back to the king.”

            As tempting as it was refuse him, Sylvanas did not. She _could_ ask for proof, but at this point he could argue she was being unfairly difficult. No, she’d have Halduron look into it. At least he’d gain experience with how common it was for the military and the magisters to disagree.

            “I will have soldiers find you appropriate lodgings,” she relinquished, turning sharply, leading the group away.

            Dar’khan smiled, glancing at the backs his companions wryly as he spoke, “Thank you, Ranger-General.”

           

Politics exhausted Sylvanas more than she often let on. She’d instructed Halduron to investigate Dar’khan’s presence, and if King Sunstrider was truly aware of what was happening here. Surely, he had received some reports, but this just appeared too trivial for the king to concern himself with. The border was far from Silvermoon, and during the festivals, it was the last thing on many minds. Why had this become anything the king, or laughably, the magisters bothered with?

            Of course, Dar’khan claimed this had nothing to do with the magisters. He was here so the king could keep an eye on Nathanos, and by extension, herself, Halduron, and every other ranking Farstrider present.

            In all honesty, Sylvanas didn’t care why the mage was here. He was an irritant, and she doubted he possessed all the bluster he’d arrived with. He touted the King’s favour as a weapon, behavior she’d witnessed before. Small, stupid men wielded names like spells, throwing them at anyone they didn’t respect.

            Worse yet was Dar’khan was a mage, and like all mages, he was full of himself. An egotistical and frustrating _tic._ He’d be gone soon enough. As soon as things quieted down, Dar’khan would slink back to whatever Light-forsaken hole he crawled out of.

            Until then, she had to suffer through his presence.

            She took to wandering to pass the time, sleep evading her as dusk turned to proper night. The stars shimmered in the sky, luring her thoughts away from politics, to distant memories.

            Movement across the bank drew her attention away from her thoughts.

            “Sylvanas.”

            Nathanos’ voice came from behind her, but she didn’t look to him. Her contemplative stare stayed fixed on the bank across the river. The forest was dark, quiet, but she’d seen movement, recognized it as humans. They were searching for a way across, yet they wouldn’t find one that wasn’t guarded. They’d be turned back, sent back on boats, or escorted to the bridge.

            When the last flicker of movement disappeared from her sight, she turned.

            “Thank you,” he said, his gaze softening. “And I’m sorry you must keep protecting me from people such as Dar’khan.”

            Her expression was impossible to read as she regarded her friend.

            “Would you have called me out here, if it hadn’t been Lordaeron?” Her question was sudden, catching the Ranger Lord off-guard.

            “I… pardon?” He sputtered, frowning in confusion.

            She remained stoic, but he recognized her glare. She’s analyzing him, judging his reaction.

            “Would you have summoned me out here if it hadn’t been Lordaeron?” While her tone is mostly even, there is a touch of impatience. One thing she hated was having to repeat herself.

            “In what manner?” Nathanos asks, “if it had been, Light help me, orcs, or the Amani seeking refuge?”

            She gives a slight shrug, head tilting. “Orcs, trolls, even the kaldorei,” she clarifies, still waiting for an answer, “Whoever it may be.”

            “I did not request your presence out here on a _whim_ , Sylvanas,” he answers, hurt by the implication, “Do you agree with Dar’khan, that I am unable to judge fairly due to being human?”

            “He’s not the first to say,” Sylvanas stated, giving no inclination if she agreed, or who the other elf may be.

            “You’re here because I do not think this is something that will blow over,” Nathanos began to explain, “I had turned many back before I wrote to you, and many more in the weeks it took for you to arrive.”

            Sylvanas’ cold expression began to warm.

            “At the beginning, there were only a few. Half a dozen, but – you saw the crowd now,” his shoulders faintly sagged, “these people need our help.”

            “Halduron questioned them,” Sylvanas revealed, beginning to walk. Nathanos joined her. “None saw the undead, none dared to even venture to the supposed afflicted villages…”

            She shook her head, gaze returning to the far bank.

            “I am sorry, Nathanos, but without evidence, there is precious little I can do,” she explained, disappointed with herself. Humans they may be, but she could tell these people were afraid. Even if the fear was unwarranted, and it turned out to be some strange misunderstanding – to turn away those seeking aid was difficult. “The king hasn’t forgotten my stunt. If I defy him now, I doubt I’ll be the Ranger-General much longer.”

            Nathanos permitted himself a smirk, snorting.

            “Which stunt, My Lady? Where you refused the prince’s hand, promoted myself, or fed the starving ten years ago?” He queried, tone teasing, but she could see the seriousness in his eyes.

            She scoffed, crossing her arms.

            “He cannot punish me for refusing his son,” she muttered, knowing that was far from the truth. “Nor can he do anything about your promotion, save for holding a grudge.”

            Nathanos chuckled.

            “I do recall his title is _king_ , so I believe he may do whatever he wants,” he quipped, earning a sour glance from Sylvanas.

            But then she smiled faintly.

            “Thankfully,” Sylvanas replied playfully, “I’m annoyingly sound at my occupation.”

            He nodded, but could do nothing against the helplessness he felt in regards to Lordaeron.

            “It feels cruel,” he admitted quietly, drawing her attention.

            Sylvanas did not let herself feel as he did, even though the guilt was nipping at her heart, and mind.

            “It isn’t,” she assured him, sounding too sure of the decision, “Nathanos, we don’t even know if there is an actual threat. You worry over rumour alone.”

            He grunted, unhappy with his own failure.

            “Perhaps Dar’khan, and this other elf are correct. I am incapable of being objectiive…” he murmured.

            She let herself chuckle softly at the thought.

            “You have a heart, Nathanos,” she corrected, “Tell me, if we had troll families at the border, with frightened children clinging to their mothers, would you then think that acceptable? Or would the instance still be cruel?”

            Nathanos found the idea revolting, who would look at any child, or families, and see nothing but an enemy?

            “I would still find it cruel,” he answered.

            “Then the solution is simple, Ranger Lord,” she said, glancing at him sidelong. “We must rip out your heart.”

            “If I have a say in this,” he joked, “I would prefer to just suffer in silence, and keep my heart.”

            Sylvanas rolled her eyes dramatically, hand on her hip. “I suppose that’s acceptable.”

            Their walk continued to the bridge, where the night guard stood patiently. There were people camped out at the end of the bridge, their weary gazes rising from the small fires to the duo.

            Sylvanas stepped up towards the river’s steep edge, mulling over unspoken concerns.

            “Ranger Lord,” her voice carried authority within it again, causing Nathanos to snap to attention. “I do believe those people look cold, and hungry.”

            Nathanos glanced at the civilians.

            “They do indeed, Ranger-General,” he agreed, unsure of her plan.

            She crossed her arms.

            “They may not cross into Quel’Thalas,” she playfully thought aloud, looking to her friend. “But I said nothing in regards to food, and supplies being delivered into Lordaeron.”

            Nathanos beamed.

            She quirked a brow at him.

            “Well?” She insisted, “You have your orders, Ranger Lord.”

            He saluted her quickly, bowing his head.

            “At once, My Lady.”           


	7. The Silence of Lordaeron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While still there is no proof of a plague, nor the undead so many migrants fear, Sylvanas can no longer wait for the situation to resolve itself. As the encampment grows to nearly a hundred, with more refugees arriving daily, she struggles to find a solution while Nathanos and Dar'Khan incessantly bicker with one another.  
> Lordaeron and Gilneas remain silent, not responding to a single letter sent to King Menethil, nor King Greymane. To compound her troubles, Prince Kael’thas has summoned Sylvanas to Silvermoon, forcing her to step away from the worsening situation at the border.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the feedback, as always! I love reading what you have to say, the thoughts you have on what's going on, and concern for what may happen to the heroes next. ❤︎

** VII CHAPTER SEVEN VII **

**The Silence of Lordaeron**

 

It took two days for Dar’Khan to muster the courage to confront Sylvanas. Or, she imagined that was the reasoning behind his delay towards chastising her for extending a branch to the refugees clustering at the border. He stomped into the command tent, his robes shimmering from equal parts magic and dampness due to a light rain. Halduron and Nathanos both took their leave, slinking out of sight, ensuring the flap of the tent was closed.

As if that would somehow dissuade voices from carrying.

“You did not have permission to aid those people!” Dar’Khan cut to the chase, she thanked the Light for that. He stood before her, chest puffed up like a hawkstrider trying to impress a female. The blue glow in his eyes burned with what Sylvanas imagined he believed was righteous fury. His hat removed, he’d thrown it onto a table as he entered, trying to illicit a reaction no doubt.

He hadn’t gotten one.

Sylvanas still sat at her desk, staring up at him mutely. His ears were pressed back, a blatant display of lack of control and anger. Something she was not returning in kind. Instead, she knitted her fingers together, touching her lips to them as she waited for his tirade to end.

“Those supplies were not yours to dispense, especially to foreigners at our borders!” He continued loudly, marching forward until he stood immediately before her desk.

She imagined he loved towering over her, as if that intimidated her in the slightest.

“And you have Quel’dorei healers crossing the bridge? Not only do you waste resources, but now you vagrantly abuse your station as Ranger-General!” He hissed the words through clenched teeth, slamming his hands down on the table. For a moment, her serene gaze flicked to his offending limbs, then returned to meet his glare without falter. “They’re not dying over there! If a child is sick, let them go to their own doctors!”

Silence hung between them, Dar’Khan looked to catch his breath before he continued.

“The king—“

“Knows of my decisions,” Sylvanas interrupted, voice even. Dar’Khan stumbled over his words next.

“W-what?” he gasped. He’d been leaning close to try and intimidate her. Now he began to recede.

“Though I do not recall ever being under the obligation of explaining myself to you,” she began, clasped hands falling away from her face as she spoke. Her calm gaze quickly switched to be unforgiving and rigid, “I’ll entertain your delusion.”

She glanced away from the magister, pulling forth a copy of the letter she wrote, sliding it across the desk to the stunned Dar’Khan. He picked it up, holding it flimsily as he read it.

“I’ll save you the time,” Sylvanas offered coldly, “it states that to avoid the unpleasantness that comes from large groups of people camping at the border, including sickness, crime, starvation, and _death_ ,” she emphasised the last word as a thinly veiled threat, but one that could be seen as simply embellishing of her point, “I took the initiative of extending an olive branch to the refugees. I assured His Majesty that no human without the proper authorisation would be permitted into Quel’Thalas, not without his royal consent, or if the rumours of the undead proved valid.”

Dar’Khan’s fury had dwindled, he swallowed dryly as he struggled to meet her unwavering, frigid glare.

“I would suggest you grow accustomed to seeing our soldiers and doctors amongst the encampment on the banks of the river,” she continued, “as they will be there for some time. Unless you have any information to provide that could speed this situation along?”

“I hadn’t known you wrote to His Majesty,” Dar’Khan admitted, as he attempted to regain his footing, “I do apologize, Ranger-General. It was just made known to me you may... show bias towards our neighbours.”

She could not catch herself quickly enough to stop her ears from twitching in surprise. Her eyes narrowed.

_“I beg your pardon?”_ The question is almost hissed.

If his intention had been to infuriate her, it doesn’t show. He wavers from her tone.

“It was a topic of discussion,” he began carefully, “that perhaps you promoted Ranger Marris not because of his skill, but due to your fondness for him.”

Her guarded expression soured.

“I would like to point out _I_ never doubted Ranger Marris’ competence,” he hastily added, “Of course, I reasonably doubted his ability to delegate Quel’Thalas’ concerns in regards to this current predicament but—“

“And who did you discuss this with?” Sylvanas interjected, she didn’t care for whatever nonsense he was spouting.

“I… I shouldn’t—“

“Magister Drathir, you have just suggested that I may be committing treason in favour of Lordaeron,” she snapped, “you would do well to continue, or I’ll have you arrested for willful misconduct and insubordination.”

Dar’Khan’s eyes widened.

“You’ve now accused two superior officers of bias without proof, you’ve shown blatant disregard for Ranger _Lord_ Marris’ authority, and utter contempt for the life across our borders - which to many it seems, is inconveniently human,” she elaborated with little emotion beyond irritation, “do yourself a favour, Magister, and _attempt_ to pull yourself out of the hole you’re so intent on digging.”

She wondered if the mage was smart enough to realize she had backed him into a corner.

“It was His Majesty King Anasterian, and his son, Prince Kael’thas, Ranger Lord Theron, a few—“

“Lor’themar?”

“Yes,” Dar’Khan nodded, “Lor’themar and I are good friends, he was visiting Silvermoon, having returned from whatever excursion you sent him on.”

“How did my apparent favouritism become a topic of conversation?” Sylvanas leaned back, crossing her arms.

“It seemed His Highness took the promotion of Ranger Lord Marris as personal affront,” Dar’Khan recalled, remembering the disgust on the prince’s face, “I won’t pretend to know what made him so hostile to the knowledge.”

Sylvanas face was set in stone, she felt no inclination towards enlightening him. It wasn’t the magister’s concern.

“Thank you, Magister Drathir,” she turned her attention back to the notes on her desk, as if they were dire, “you’re dismissed.”

 

Sylvanas stood in contemplative silence as she stared at the _settlement_ across the river. On her right was Nathanos, his expression that of concern, whilst on her left, Dar’Khan stood displaying quiet irritation. The trio had watched the crowd grow significantly over the last week and a half, more and more humans turning up, and the camp which had once housed a few dozen, was closing in on a hundred.

It seemed the problem wasn’t going away as they’d all had hoped.

It wasn’t a strain on resources that concerned Sylvanas. No, a hundred people was nothing. Two hundred, three hundred – in truth the number mattered little. What worried her, was they all came with the same stories, but now there were families coming from greater distances. They spoke of rumours that some were fleeing to Gilneas, too.

Sylvanas hadn’t received word from Lordaeron or Gilneas. Thankfully Dalaran still wrote, but they determined themselves too busy to investigate the manner. They claimed there was no dark sense in their magic, thus it did not warrant magical investigation.

Dar’Khan spoke the same nonsense, but at least he admitted that they should find some sort of solution to their growing problem.

She let out a long exhale. The rain hadn’t let up since it began the day Dar’Khan confronted her. It was steady, it was warm, and it certainly dampened their mood.

Weren’t the magisters masters of magic? Was Quel’Thalas not enchanted to be a wonderful haven of gorgeous weather and climate? They all blamed it on their proximity to the border, that they were suffering Lordaeron’s terrible weather.

“Lor’themar is coming,” Sylvanas stated, tilting her head as she watched the humans across the river. At least they had stopped trying to sneak across. “I’ve been summoned to Silvermoon.”

Nathanos glanced at the Ranger-General.

“What’s to be done about the camp?” he inquired, unsure if it truly matched the definition of camp any longer.

“Lor’themar will continue ensuring they’re cared for,” Sylvanas noted, “I, however, have a task for you.”

Nathanos looked to Sylvanas expectantly, Dar’Khan smirked. She imagined he’d prefer to be rid of the human.

“Both of you.”

The magister blinked, turning to face Sylvanas, “Ranger-General?”

She motioned for them to follow, leading towards the command tent. Shielded from the rain, she pulled back her hood. Nathanos hair was slick with water, he pulled a glove off and ran his hand through it as Dar’Khan came in last and removed his hat.

“If the number of refugees seeking asylum continues to grow,” Sylvanas began, turning on her heel to face the men, “new problems we hadn’t needed to consider will come to pass. How many people can we rightly govern until they realize we hadn’t the soldiers to stop them?”

Dar’Khan nodded, Nathanos did not enjoy hearing of the perceived issues.

“I will have to request additional soldiers to the border, which could antagonize those not permitted entry. They may think we’re planning on forcing them back, and Light forbid a noble from Lordaeron happens across a militarized border. They’ll think we’re invading.”

She let out a soft sigh.

“Lordaeron has gone silent, which is not proof of the undead, but _something_ is wrong,” her statement reassured Nathanos, he stood taller. “No letter sent to Gilneas has earned a response either, whether by raven or messenger.”

“Have the envoys returned?”

Sylvanas shook her head, “No, they have not.” That confirmed that something was very wrong across the border, and they could not afford to be ignorant any longer, “Which brings me to you two.”

The men glanced uneasily at one another.

“You will venture across the border, and investigate the claims of the migrants. I want to know what’s going on. If it’s the undead, if it’s some sort cloak and dagger rebellion, or if it’s the shattered Horde reigning chaos on the land.” Sylvanas hoped it wasn’t the latter, she did not want war with the orcs again. “I need to know.”

Nathanos nodded, Dar’Khan wavered.

“Forgive me, Ranger-General, but what would my presence serve?” He still stood with confidence, but he utterly lacked any incentive to travel with Nathanos into Lordaeron.

“I confess,” Nathanos agreed with Dar’Khan, “I fail to see the benefit of his being there.”

Sylvanas permitted herself a smirk.

“You both have much invested in this predicament,” she replied coyly, “I’ll admit with different outcomes intended, but, I would see that energy combined into a single effort…”

Their expressions were priceless. She didn’t mention how with their absence she’d be free of their constant bickering, and their wishes would not influence Lor’themar. It was the ideal situation to keep neutrality in the situation.

Which is something she needed to keep if she was going to survive Silvermoon.

“There has not been a true display of military and magical cohesion since the Second War,” she stated, glancing away, “this is the perfect opportunity to reassure the public, and members of the council, that we’re still capable of working towards a common goal.”

Neither of them could argue against her point.

“You leave tomorrow at dawn,” she ordered, gaze flicking between the two, “unless either of you have a compelling reason to remain in Quel’Thalas? Some sort of revelation regarding the troubles in Lordaeron?”

They shook their heads.

“Pity,” she responded, “as to not raise suspicion, you’ll both be on horseback. See the stable-master at first light.”

Dar’Khan nodded, taking his leave with a particularly foul expression. Nathanos lingered.

“Sylvanas,” he started, watching as she leaned against her desk, arms crossing as she faced him, “now it not the best time to leave the border…”

She snorted, looking away with a shake of her head.

“I did not have a choice, Nathanos,” she replied curtly, “it was a royal summon, from the Prince.”

Her friend frowned.

“I thought he was in Dalaran?”

Sylvanas stayed her tongue against any truly rude comment she had in regards to Kael’thas. She and the prince were not friends, they could be, and often were amicable, but that was as far as her tolerance extended. He was self-righteous, pompous, and vain. All traits common to her people, but Kael’thas exemplified them. His ego was only matched by prowess with magic, which was his saving grace. He also displayed some interest in rebuilding the relationships with other nations, if only just.

“He leaves shortly,” Sylvanas explained, “I leave tonight, Lor’themar will arrive sometime after that.”

“And you’re absolutely certain,” Nathanos grumbled, “that I must take Dar’Khan with me?”

She smirked, “Yes.”

“Has Halduron received any word about the magister’s intentions?” He was desperate to somehow exclude the mage. His presence would be an unnecessary headache.

“No,” Sylvanas sighed, “it seems they’re caught up in something dire, it may be a few more weeks before we receive any reply.” 

“I see…” He scowled, resigned to his fate.

“If there are undead, Nathanos,” she smiled weakly, attempting to reassure her friend, “having a mage present would be a boon.”

He snorted, rolling his eyes as he bowed his head. “I imagine it would be, except I’m not entirely convinced he won’t light me aflame for simply being human.”

She laughed.

“You’re a Farstrider, Nathanos,” she commented, drawing his gaze, “I do expect you to shoot him first if it comes to that. Otherwise, you’re just another round-ear playing archer.”

He smiled, nodding.

“I would never disappoint my Ranger-General."


	8. A Whisper of Tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the Ranger-General's command, Nathanos and Dar'Khan venture out of Quel'Thalas and into Lordaeron in search of the undead. The skies are overcast, there's a chill in the air, and the rain is strangely depressing.  
> And every village they happen across, appears to be abandoned...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay! Life does have a tendency of getting in the way at times. Thank you all for your lovely comments, and your patience. I hope that there won't be another long wait between chapters. 
> 
> Also I love writing Nathanos and Dar'Khan, their sass is amusing.

**VIII CHAPTER EIGHT VIII**

**A Whisper of Tragedy**

 

Lordaeron did not have the benefit of a magical climate. Here, the seasons truly did sway the environment. For the better part of a week it had simply _rained_ , the sky a depressing grey, the gentle gusts of wind cold and damp. The roads were mud, lined by old fencing, with an occasional lantern to create the illusion of anyone being near. At first, Nathanos and Dar’Khan had passed a few groups of people, all of which gave the two men the strangest glances.

It was no stretch of the imagination that they thought the men mad. They were riding southwest, towards whatever unseen horror that they were all fleeing from. What madness had come over them? What could possibility motivate them to ride towards death?

Nathanos needed no more motivation than this was his _home_ , and he would not have it ravaged by some foe. Sylvanas’ command was a kindness, in his opinion. He’d felt so useless on the border, unable to do anything more than ensure the group camping across the river was comfortable and taken care of. Here and now, _moving_ , riding against the current of people running – he was given purpose. He imagined the entire experience was frustrating to Dar’Khan, who’d worn a scowl since the Ranger-General ordered them away.

They’d spoken little, which was fine in Nathanos’ opinion. Dar’Khan was an egotistical, vain bastard who valued himself above everything else. Worse yet, was he showed no compassion towards humanity, so he probably thought Lordaeron deserved whatever fate was befalling it.

Bitterly, Nathanos shot the mage a look. He would not be so unkind to Quel’Thalas, he imagined.

But Lordaeron and her people, they were _expendable._

Nathanos turned his glare away from the quel’dorei. It wouldn’t do to focus on his ever-growing dislike for Dar’Khan. It would solve nothing, and do neither of them any good.

Besides, it was gratifying to see Dar’Khan robbed of his fine robes and linens, replaced instead with garb that was entirely practical and human. Dark pants with no frills or finery, a plain brown belt, a tunic so boring Dar’Khan probably viewed it as an insult, with a leather vest, and then an overcoat. His long black hair was tied back in a tail, which he purposefully draped over his shoulder for added flair as he wore that _ridiculous_ hat.

Was he supposed to be some sort of swashbuckling rogue? The notion was ludicrous.

Nathanos, who’d politely bit his tongue for the week, finally opted to break the silence.

“Do you have a menagerie of hats, or have you simply enchanted this one to forever don your head?” His comment is sharp and witty, but it earns him nothing save a glower from his companion.

“You would do well to show me respect, Ranger Marris,” Dar’Khan shot back, blue gaze fixed on the road ahead of them, “I am a magister.”

“A magister far from those who would defend him,” Nathanos quipped in return, “and one who did not have such standing that they could argue with the Ranger-General. And it is _Ranger-Lord._ ”

Dar’Khan did not look to Nathanos, but the ranger watched as the elf’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“I am certain the Ranger-General had her reasons for sending me here,” Dar’Khan countered, “a mage is certainly useful in a fight.”

That Nathanos could not argue with, though he did not care how helpful Dar’Khan may prove to be. He was nothing short of a bastard.

Instead, the human snorted, shaking his head.

“The truth is, she probably grew tired of us,” Nathanos replied, as a sort of offering of peace.

Dar’Khan glanced at him, his irritation wilting slightly. There was no doubt in his mind as well, that such reasoning played a part.

Still, he could possibly use this as an advantage.

“She has been quite busy,” Dar’Khan reasoned, looking to the treeline, “your promotion has caused her a lot of grief, and now with this,” he waved his hand absentmindedly, _“Lordaeronian issue…”_

Nathanos looked sidelong at Dar’Khan. What exactly was the magister getting at?

“Well, it’s not surprising that His Highness wishes to speak with her,” Dar’Khan finished, his tone implying he knew much more then he was letting on.

“I doubt that the prince wishes to speak to the Ranger-General regarding Lordaeron,” Nathanos retorted, annoyance slipping into his voice. “Unless you’ve been privy to some news you wish to share?”

Dar’Khan, ever the gossip, looked away dramatically. He grinned, his sharp gaze flicking back to the human.

“It is the timing, _Ranger-Lord,_ ” Dar’Khan chided, “we have a crisis at the border but Prince Kael’thas thinks something is important enough to draw Quel’Thalas’ defender away? Leaving Ranger-Lord Theron in charge… I’ll confess, _you’ve_ been a topic of conversation at the palace, and not for good I’m afraid.”

“Speak plainly magister, I haven’t the time for your games,” Nathanos snapped impatiently.

“More like not the mind,” Dar’Khan responded quickly, rolling his eyes. Humans were so dull. “They believe our dear Ranger-General promoted you out of spite alone, towards His Majesty and his son. The prince did not take kindly to your advancement, and _his father…_ ”

Dar’Khan trailed off purposefully, leaving it to Nathanos’ imagination, if the cretin even had one.

“I see…” Nathanos murmured, for once without a sharp riposte. He looked towards the road as he mulled over the mage’s words. Half of which he was sure were lies, but Sylvanas herself had brought up some concerns. And she had said how Lor’themar was coming to the border in her stead, as Prince Kael’thas wished to see her before he returned to Dalaran.

“Let’s be honest, Ranger-Lord,” Dar’Khan kept emphasizing the man’s rank, using it as a taunt. “You’re what? In your thirties? Perhaps closing in on your forties… It’s always hard to guess a human’s age. You all wither so quickly. Do you know how old the Ranger-General is? Or Ranger-Lord Theron?”

“I do not know the exact number, no,” Nathanos replied sourly. Now he was _hoping_ something attacked them. His ploy to bait Dar’Khan had not worked out as planned.

“I do not doubt your skill compared to some,” Dar’Khan offered as a complacency, “for instance, I have no talent with the bow. You are a master compared to I.”

“But let us compare you to Ranger-Lord Theron,” the magister explained, his tone so very condescending. “He has _centuries_ on you, that is at least two-hundred years more experience. He has proven himself consistently to be competent, accurate, and loyal to Quel’Thalas.”

He eyed Nathanos dismissively.

“You? Humans scarcely live past sixty, half your life is gone already. You are not, and never will be, as true a shot as Ranger-Lord Theron, nor any other elf due simply in part to age and _experience.”_

Dar’Khan let that bitter, hard fact sink in. He watched with a mean delight as Nathanos processed the realization.

“So, what are we to think? That a human who happens to be close to the Ranger-General is promoted due to his skill and expertise, or are we right to suspect that Lady Windrunner is showing favouritism towards a certain ranger?”

“You believe she is going to be reprimanded for her decision?” Nathanos questioned, “for promoting me?”

Dar’Khan _hoped so._

“I couldn’t imagine why Prince Kael’thas would summon her otherwise,” Dar’Khan stated smugly.

They walked in silence for a moment.

“Could it be that His Highness simply wishes to enjoy the Ranger-General’s company?” Nathanos asked, feigning innocence.

“You… suggest that the prince wishes to court Lady Windrunner?” Dar’Khan asked with a raised brow, seeking clarification. What was this human getting at?

“Well if you’re to be believed,” Nathanos began, “you regularly send reports to the palace stating how there is no threat, that it is simple gossip not to be thought about.”

 “And?”

“So, if His Highness does not perceive a threat, he would believe it is not necessary for the Ranger-General to be present at the border,” Nathanos shrugged, looking to the magister. “The Ranger-General has consistently denied that my promotion is favouritism, and there hasn’t been any evidence of such. And despite your doubts, I am quite capable of competing with Ranger-Lord Theron. Perhaps you see my short life as a weakness, but they do not. It gives me a perspective you lack.

“So, as there is a sheer lack of evidence proving my promotion is anything less than legitimate, then we must assume it is deserved. That would mean Prince Kael’thas would have only your reports, and the reports sent by myself, Captain Brightwing, and the Ranger-General to rely on. None of us could report a threat, as there hasn’t been any clear indication of one.”

He could see the mage’s expression losing its arrogance. It was a lovely sight.

“Which means Prince Kael’thas summoned her to Silvermoon for something _else_ ,” Nathanos went on to explain, though it wasn’t needed. He simply wanted to make Dar’Khan eat his words. “And I doubt very much, he has summoned her to Silvermoon to reprimand her. She has done her job well, and endured _certain headaches_ longer than necessary.”

“I am to believe _I_ am the headache?” Dar’Khan asked, though it was hardly necessary.

“Yes, _you.”_ Nathanos snapped, all his patience evaporating. “You’ve done nothing but insult me, Lordaeron, humanity, the Ranger-General, and the capabilities of everyone who dares to show any ounce of compassion.”

He turned his horse so it blocked the magister’s path.

“Worse yet, is you pretend to be something you’re not. You puff out your chest and arrogantly proclaim you are a magister, yet truly, _what have you achieved?_ If you were worth _anything,_ then you would not be here. You’re nothing but a messenger, someone with just enough skill to get a title yet not enough talent to go any further.”

Nathanos’ eyes narrowed, he next words venomous.

“Dwell on this Dar’Khan, that a _human_ ascended to a greater rank than _you,_ in less time, and with the disadvantage of being half in the grave.”

There was nothing left to say after that, Nathanos swung his steed around, and his walk turned into a canter. He had no desire to wait for Dar’Khan, the arrogant, stuck-up mage that he was.

Dar’Khan watched the human ride off. He ignored the wound to his pride as best he could. What did Nathanos know? He was a human, one pretending to be a ranger. He hadn’t an ounce of magical potential, he was short-lived, short-sighted, and nothing but the Ranger-General’s _pet._ There were rumours that Sylvanas’ had bedded the human, and it was taking all of Dar’Khan’s restraint not to impugn upon her honour and accuse them of highly inappropriate behavior.

Yet he kept his mouth shut as he urged his horse forward as greater speed. Now was not the time to make a complete enemy of the Ranger-Lord. As loathsome as the human was, Dar’Khan would have to suffer his company a while longer.

Windmill Hollow was a village that sat near enough to the Quel’Thalas border that it meant the duo did not have to venture all the way to Stratholme. It had never attracted enough people to truly become a town, but its proximity to the elven lands meant that it boasted enough inns to make all the merchants and traders happy. The dirt road became cobblestone as the men encroached, their eyes flicking to the sign nailed to a post, pointing in the direction of the settlement.

It had been two weeks since their initially set out, and the rain hadn’t let up. It was cold, its chill somehow sinking right into their bones as it continued to pour. They had passed a few hamlets on the way south, all of them empty, and all utterly absent of any evidence of threat besides their occupants leaving in a hurry. The conversations between the two men were curt, to the point, neither of them noting oddities. Though both agreed that the power of gossip and fear seemed to have taken hold of the landscape.

Yet Windmill Hollow was _different._ Nathanos could not put his finger on it – but approaching the village had set him on edge. The rain pattered down, the sky was just shades of grey on top of one another, the wind was hardly present at all. All he heard was the _clip-clop_ of the horses’ hooves on stonework.

Instinctively he drew his bow, an action that had Dar’Khan looking to him in concern.

Dar’Khan’s eyes glowed brighter as he readied himself. He did not perceive any threat, but he would not be one caught unawares.

“What is it?” Dar’Khan murmured, glancing at his companion as they guided their horses to a stop. Windmill Hollow was not even in view yet.        

“I don’t know,” Nathanos muttered, “Something’s amiss.”

Dar’Khan narrowed his eyes at their dreary surroundings, ears faintly twitching.

“I sense nothing,” Dar’Khan commented, glancing at the human, “If something is amiss, it is not magical.”

Cautiously, Nathanos guided his horse forward. What could it be if not magical? What was it that was setting him so on edge? He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together as slowly, they came around a bend in the road and Windmill Hollow came into view.

Nothing appeared to be awry, save for the lack of smoke and noise. But that was no different from any other place they’d come across.

“Perhaps it is simply that people are missing,” Dar’Khan suggested, shrugging off his own discomfort. “This village is far larger than the others we visited, and the absence of peasants does make this all very strange.”

Strange that Dar’Khan would be the one to offer a sound idea. Nathanos shook his head gently.

“Perhaps,” he admitted, though he was no less cautious as they journeyed closer, “But be on guard.”

Dar’Khan nodded.

Three inns, a church, numerous smaller homes, and a market quarter was the entirety of Windmill Hollow. Three windmills were set up on the fielded hills to the east, unmoving. They dismounted quickly, Nathanos eyeing the horses and noting how they snorted, and kept their ears alert and forward despite the absence of reason. He glanced at Dar’Khan, noting how the magister appeared to be utterly oblivious.

“This place looks as abandoned as the others,” Dar’Khan murmured, frowning. “I grow tired of the lack of evidence.”

“As do I,” Nathanos granted, he had thought they’d find _something_ by now.

“Let’s split up, shall we?” Dar’Khan proposed, “we’ll meet in the middle, at the church.”

Though he did not agree with the notion of parting, even with his reservations about the mage, Nathanos agreed. It was best to hurry this along, so they could continue on.

Dar’Khan used it as an excuse to be rid of the human. He marched to the first house, pushing open the door curiously, hand raised, mana in his blood brimming. He would not become someone’s victim, whether it be bandits, orcs, or undead. He’d blast them with fire and then shout for Nathanos.

Yet the house was empty. Though its interior was in tatters, it did not appear to be _abandoned_ , rather it seemed there’d been a fight. He strode forward, peering into what must have been a sort of dining room, though it was hilariously small.

The table was overturned, nearly cracked in half, with chairs strewn about. On the walls, strange, uneven markings. Swipes from a sword, perhaps?

He brought his hand up to them, a chilling realization sweeping over him.

Each brutal etch in the wood matched up with his fingers…

These were claw marks.

Nervously, he swallowed the lump in his throat and slowly backed out of the house.

He stood staring at it for a long moment, glancing towards where Nathanos should have been. The man was still investigating his first building – some sort of shop.

Impatient, and morbid fascination saw Dar’Khan’s attention turn to the next house.

Slowly he stepped towards the second house, the same size as the first. It had a modest, old fence around it, though it was lacking a gate. He slunk up the path to the door, and pressed on it.

It creaked open, louder still due to the absolute absence of other sounds save for the patter of ugly rain.

The foyer was empty.

Dar’Khan stepped inside, glancing at the rampant claw marks all over the hallway. Here, where the rain could not wash evidence away, blood had stained the log walls and the floorboards.

Then came the smell. Rank and pungent, it hung in the air. Dar’Khan cringed, covering his nose and mouth with his hand, he took tentative steps forward. Ears wilting as the stench worsened, and the sound of flies reached him. He moved into the kitchen, eyes widening in horror as they became fixed on the grisly scene.

A woman, skin deathly pale and tinged blue, ugly, jagged tears all over her body. Her simple dress torn open without a thought or care, shredded. Her abdomen gouged, blood having congealed days ago. Her face half gone, chewed off. She stared at the ceiling, jaw slacked.

Dar’Khan stomach twisted itself into a revolted knot. He heaved, but each inhale of the putrid air only worsened his condition. He bent over, contents of his stomach vomited onto the floor, the lunch he and Nathanos shared now no longer gracing his stomach.

Shakily, he touched his lips, wiping them off on a handkerchief he plucked from a pocket.

His sickened gaze set back on the corpse.

So much of her was _chewed,_ but the bite and teeth marks were not of any beast he recognized.

“Belore…” He murmured.

She looked at him, dead eyes fixed on the magister with a sinister, ravenous fascination.

Dar’Khan ran back towards the entrance.

“Ranger-Lord!” He shouted, shattering the ominous peace of the village, “The refugees were telling the truth! The undead are here!” 

 


	9. In The Shadows of Royalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams once again haunt Jaina, the announced arrival of Prince Arthas seems to have stirred up emotions she thought she'd buried long ago. Plagued by nightmares and countless questions, she begins a search for answers, though she fears what she may find.
> 
> Meanwhile, Sylvanas arrives in Silvermoon, and meets with Prince Kael'thas in the gardens of Sunfury Palace. Her thoughts are on the border, and the rumours of undeath that haunt the refugees begging to be let in. But the prince surprises her, both with an unexpected offer, and in regards to Dar'Khan's station as the King's delegate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY LORD I AM SORRY. The delay was extended, terrible, and unintended. x.x Thank you all for your patience and feedback ❤︎ It really does mean the world to me, and I hope you can forgive me.

**IX CHAPTER NINE IX**

**In The Shadows of Royalty**

 

For a long time, the nightmares that had plagued Jaina so readily after they fled Northrend, ceased. For ten long years she hadn’t dreamed of snow, save for a few horrid nights. Nights when the guilt she tried to smother with books, or drown in wine refused to be silenced. Then she’d close her eyes and see the wicked landscape of Northrend, she’d stumble blindly through unrelenting blizzards, happen across corpses she didn’t recognize.

In those dreams, she never saw Arthas, yet she knew he was out there. Some nights she could hear him calling her, crying out that he was lost, that he needed aid. His shouting carried on the howling winds as only a whisper, but it was audible nonetheless. Then slowly, as the years progressed, she could no longer hear him.

She walked through plains of snow-covered corpses alone, then not at all.

Recently, Northrend had come again to haunt her dreams. The return of the nightmares coincided with the return of Arthas, his reappearance heralded months ago in a missive. Jaina had attributed them to stress, to the apprehensionthat filled her at the prospect of having to perhaps see him and face the consequence of her actions. She’d _abandoned_ him in Northrend, and for a decade she’d believed he’d perished out there in the bitter cold…

But steadily, the dreams she suffered **changed**. While before they had exhausted her, the repetitiveness trying her patience and mollifying the fear they had once elicited– they now felt _different_.

She dreamed of Lordaeron, of things she did not understand. She dreamed of the seas turning to ice, of the vast forests of the kingdom succumbing to a strange sickness that withered even the hardy grass beneath her feet.

She dreamed of a golden crown rolling down the steps of a kingly hall, frost coating the floor.

Over and over, until this night, when the dream grew longer.

She heard the low breathing of a man, and _felt_ a presence standing just behind her. The air was so cold. Frigid beyond that of normality, carrying with it an unnatural bitterness that ran over her skin like a dagger’s tip.

She dreaded the face her eyes would set upon when she turned. She did not want to see him, to face the guilt and shame. She did not doubt his expression would be foul, and he had every right to be.

Her eyes widened.

She stared instead at Uther, his eyes so sad and lost, skin deathly pale, frost and ice clinging to the hefty plates of his armour.

_“Jaina…”_ when he spoke, he sounded distant, as if he were speaking to her over a great distance, as impossible as that was.

Then his skin began shrivelling, eyes becoming sunken and faded.

Terror surged through her veins.

She awoke to the thundering anthem of her heart, feeling as if it were slamming against her ribcage, so horrified that it wished to flee and leave her corpse to decay. Jaina sucked in shallow, hard breaths as she sat up. She was in her bedroom, her spacious quarters safely in one of the many spiralling towers of Dalaran. The sun had yet to rise, the sky only beginning to lighten as night began to relinquish its hold on the world.

Her clammy hands gripped the sheets tightly, and it took a moment before she dared to ease her hold.  

Desperation made her reason that this, like all the dreams, were just that. Nightmares with no foundation, brought forth by stress and fear. There’d been no word that Lordaeron was in trouble, and Dalaran was in such close proximity that surely if there was something amiss, they would know.

Jaina shivered.

She was cold, and it was a cold that made the gnarled scar on her abdomen ache.

It was the chill of Northrend – it’d found her once again.

“Damn it,” Jaina murmured to the silence, throwing the sheets off. Sleep would not be returning to her again, there was no use in attempting to chase it.

When she was dressed, she descended the steps of the tower to the study. The glow-lights sensed her presence immediately, the enchanted stones illuminating the abandoned library. This was where she always ran to, to think. She found, more often than not, she was taking refuge here, escaping into books. Studying always took her mind off of what troubled her…

But she had not come here this time to read an old text that would be another source for a research paper. Instead she hurried to the desk tucked away in the corner of the vast room. With a wave of her hand three books slid off the shelves and floated to join her. They were tomes, all much too thick to be reasonable, older than many texts in the city. She had scoured the entirety of Dalaran to find them, but knowing their purpose, had taken to hiding them in plain sight.

As she sat down to read, the illusionary enchantments on the books faded. The books, once appearing new and well kept, became disheveled and thinner. Their hardened covers withered to old leather, marked not by legible words, but rather menacing glyphs.

They were the brief, known histories of Northrend, of Necromancy, and a small occult text speaking of the Burning Legion. Their pages were full of a man’s frantic scrawls, telling a tale of curiosity, madness, and a desire for **power.**

The Journals of Kel’Thuzad.

           

Sylvanas could not recall ever setting sights on a city as beautiful as Silvermoon, and none that could match the magical prowess that kept the wondrous capital functioning. A grand, protective wall of stone, enchanted to maintain itself through any obstacle its should face surrounded a metropolis that housed quite possibly a million souls. Massive statues flanked the spectacular entrance, carved skillfully by magisters, the figures stood as stoic guardians of the city.

The gate itself gleamed with vibrant colours of white, gold, red, and turquoise. Ban’Anar, the gate was called, or Sun Gate in Common.

But while Sylvanas admired Silvermoon for its beauty, she did not wish to be here. Not when there was something going on in Lordaeron, not when she’d sent Nathanos and Dar’Khan to investigate the consistent claims of an undead menace. What could be so important to the prince that he required Sylvanas’ presence in Silvermoon? It irritated her, and she did not bother to hide her displeasure as she rode through the crowded streets on her hawkstrider. While no one would say she appeared angry, she certainly was forgoing her typical neutrality in favour for a chilly disposition.

Sunfury Palace was perhaps the greatest spectacle in Silvermoon. It was the home of royalty, and it appeared as such. Its main gate was wide and arched, decorated with phoenixes and epitaphs to the sun. The guards here were as skilled with swords as they were with spells, and stood at the ready with great shields and gleaming halberds.

It was not the main gate Sylvanas used to enter the first of many wards of the palace. She used a second, smaller passage meant for deliveries and servants. She slipped through easily, avoiding the pomp as well as the possibility of encountering the nobles that often lurked in the gardens surrounding the intended entrance.

A stable-hand took her bird from her, and she did not spare the young man a glance as she marched impatiently towards the castle.

It was a glorious structure in a glorious city, but Sylvanas was not in the mood to admire it.

In fact, the only thing she’d enjoyed so far was the weather. Here, the rain was gone, the wind wasn’t as chilly, and the sun shone. The warmth was greedily welcomed by her skin.

The interior of the palace was adorned with white marble, impeccable artworks and statues, and red drapery. The carpets that lined each and every hall were ornate, woven with such masterful skill that it was impossibilite anyone could match the quality without magical aid. Everything was accented with gold, and the phoenix was brazenly displayed everywhere it could be without appearing overbearing or gaudy.

Sylvanas’ regalia was that of what was expected of her in the presence of royalty. The armour, which left her midriff bare, was impractical for combat and tedious. Her cloak was a majestic blue, lined with gold, the pauldrons that donned her shoulders had been shaped into the likeness of a hawk’s head.

She made her way quickly to the farthest corner of the palace, where the prince loved to dine with his fellow mages. She was stopped at the door, the personal assistants of Kael’thas raising a single hand to impede her path, imposing guards looking to Sylvanas with unreadable expressions.

“Wait here,” the man ordered, his tone reminiscent of Dar’Khan’s. Respectful, if only because he had to be.

Sylvanas watched him disappear behind the door, emerging a minute afterwards, followed by a parade of magisters, and their apprentices.

They regarded each other with equal disdain. She had no patience for magic, nor the imbeciles who wielded it, and they thought her a simpleton with no gift for spellwork.

As they filtered out, the assistant looked to Windrunner with a raised brow.

“Follow me, Ranger-General,” he spoke.

The personal study of Kael’thas was closer to a library. It was a wide, circular room with enough furnishings for five small homes. Everything was of the most expensive taste, and magic was at work in the chamber. Books floated around the room, putting themselves away, as numerous quills worked to inscribe the notes of today’s discussions.

Numerous artifactswere littered about the room in a tasteful and somewhat-organized manner. The orbs burned hotly with arcane power, their magical glows casting dazzling patterns of light on the entirely stained-glass ceiling that depicted the proud rise of the High Elves.

“Your Highness,” the assistant bowed, “Ranger-General Sylvanas Windrunner.”

Sylvanas’ bow was as formal and practiced as the rest of the mannerisms she had had to master for her interactions with the royal family. She could count on one hand the times she’d curtseyed, most of those occurrences being when she was younger and visited the palace in a dress.

Upon discovering that the bow was acceptable if she were wearing trousers, she had stopped counting. She’d ensured that she had always been in her military attire when summoned by the king or prince.

Today was no exception.

As she rose, her chilly gaze fell upon the prince.

There was no denying Kael’thas’ splendor. He sat gracefully on a chaise, tomes he’d been perusing with his magical companions still lingering in the air at a comfortable level for reading. His robes were regal, brilliant golds and whites, his sash and the lining of his magnificent cloak a deep red. His hair was perfect, long and white-blond, and his eyes, bright and keen, radiated blue.

He was a handsome man, though he lacked the grit that would be found in many of the rangers.

“Ranger-General,” he smiled, his voice smooth. He shot a look to his assistant, shoo’ing him away with a dismissive wave, “Thank you, for returning to Silvermoon.”

Sylvanas waited until she heard the door snick closed before she replied.

“Of course, Your Highness,” she responded, hands clasped behind her back comfortably, “I would not ignore a royal summon.”

Her comment saw his smile shift to a smirk.

“I’d be a fool to think your presence here does not irk you some,” Kael’thas stated patiently, and with a wave of a hand, a chair slid forward for the Ranger-General. “Please take a seat ,My Lady. I would not have you standing there, wishing death upon me. Perhaps if you’re sitting, your ire will simply pray for a mild maiming.”

For all her dislike for the prince, his invitation earned a small smirk from her. She sat, ensuring that she appeared as well-kept as he.

“Your Highness—“

“Please,” Kael’thas interrupted, causing the words Sylvanas intended relay, to become trapped in her throat. “I’ve summoned you here to offer you an apology, Ranger-General.”

If the statement wasn’t so odd, Sylvanas would have found the concept incredibly frustrating. Could an apology not have come from a letter?

“Pardon?”

Kael’thas’ gaze fell briefly to his lap, before it rose again to meet hers.

“I took unprecedented offense to the inclusion of Nathanos Marris within our ranks,” he explained, “I implied I knew better than you, in regards to the defense of Silvermoon, and Quel’Thalas…”

Sylvanas stayed quiet. If Kael’thas were waiting for her to disagree, he’d be sorely disappointed.

“I apologize for the tone I took,” he continued, a stray thought summoning a decanter of brandy to the prince’s side, liquid spiralling out of the container and into a waiting glass. “I’m ashamed to say I permitted my father to influence me. I have no doubt you know his views on humanity…”

Sylvanas said nothing, though there was a flicker of acknowledgment on her face.

“If I may be so bold,” Kael’thas went on, “in truth, I found myself jealous of Nathanos.”

For all her mastery of neutrality, surprise appeared on the Ranger-General’s face. She looked at the prince in marked confusion, “Jealous, Your Highness?”

For a moment, Kael’thas appeared almost bashful. His gaze fell once more, and he chuckled to himself. Sylvanas took to dreading this conversation suddenly, and it took all her willpower not to find something to fiddle with.

“Yes.” His gaze was on her again, his eyes gleaming with an intent Sylvanas could not decipher, “It is no secret I wished to spend greater time in your presence, I felt as if the induction of Nathanos was to wound me, in a manner of speaking.”

“It was not.” No, she’d given Nathanos the opportunity because she believed he deserved it. He was a good man, loyal, and had a strong heart. His competence with a bow also did not go amiss.

“I see that now,” the prince conceded, “I hadn’t thought myself so arrogant until I had time to process your decision. I overcame it, just in time for you to refuse my proposal.”

Sylvanas’ gaze deviated from the prince’s abruptly. His marriage proposal had been unexpected. She’d refused him, of course. She could not be Ranger-General and princess, and in truth she had no aspirations to royalty. Of course, the country would have sung praises at the two ancient family lines finally being wed – but she’d said no.

“I see…” Sylvanas managed.

“Do you recall what happened after that?” he mused, his smirk growing.

“I promoted Captain Marris to Ranger-Lord,” she replied, clearing her throat.

He nodded and then permitted himself a laugh, “My father was furious. He claimed you were abusing your station to wound me.”

She did not find the implication nearly as amusing, but she supposed she might have had their positions been reversed.

“This is also why I summoned you to Silvermoon,” the prince revealed, “this conversation is not one I wished to be inscribed. What would anyone think should they happen across the letter?”

Any clever retort Sylvanas had remained within her.

“I do not know, Your Highness,” Sylvanas said.

“I wish to put the topic to bed as quickly as possible,” Kael’thas went on, no longer comfortably lounging. He sat up, his interest clearly piqued, “Did you promote Nathanos to get back at me?”

“No,” Sylvanas answered, her annoyance with this foolish topic bleeding into the single word.

“So you believe he truly deserves his station?”

“Yes.”

Kael’thas considered her answer for a long moment. His gaze was cunning, his smile indecipherable except  perhaps for the pleasure he found in her answer.

“Good,” he relaxed somewhat, “Honestly I was growing bored of that particular rumour. You must already know this, My Lady, but many believed you were being petty.”

Sylvanas allowed herself to be candid.

“I am aware, My Prince.” Her smile was somewhat bitter, but it was a break in her formality that seemed to please Kael’thas.

He took a sip of his drink, and paused.

“Forgive me, do you wish for a glass?” He blinked, “I know you do not care to drink when you’re on duty, but…”

Sylvanas glanced at the empty glass that had begun to float towards them.

“If Your Highness does not mind me indulging,” she said, and watched the prince’s face light up.

“Of course not,” he smiled eagerly, and soon enough Sylvanas was graced with a drink, “And I thought for our next topic, you may need the alcohol.”

Sylvanas’ regarded the man in suspicion, one brow raising as she tried to read Kael’thas. What other topic was there? What could he possibly want? Their meeting was going fairly well, compared to their past ones. If he wasn’t careful, he’d ruin it all.

“There is another rumour…” he began delicately, “In regards to yourself and your newly promoted Ranger-Lord…”

Her eyes narrowed.

Then, as quickly as her confusion came, so did realization. Her expression began exasperated, and she took to nursing her drink.

“Oh,” Sylvanas murmured, glancing at him. She lowered the glass, shaking her head slightly, “ _That_ rumour.”

“You’ve heard it then?”

“I have, Your Highness.”

“And?” Kael’thas tilted his head.

Sylvanas blinked, was he actually inquiring if the rumour was true?

“I assure you, the rumour is nothing more than gossip,” she promised, taking another drink.

“So you’re not bedding Ranger-Lord Marris?”

Sylvanas _choked_. 

“Forgive me, Ranger-General,” he implored, “but that rumour has become quite pervasive. Enough so that I believe there is a need to address the gossip. It is one thing if Nathanos proved to be a trifle footnote of vengeance, but another thing entirely should the common people believe you’re sleeping with your officers.”

There wasn’t enough brandy in the entirety of Quel’Thalas for this conversation. Sylvanas downed the rest of it, putting the glass down on a table that had glided up next to her seat, as if sensing her intention.

“Your Highness,” Sylvanas replied coolly, “I doubt there would be an issue if the rumour pertained to sleeping with Ranger-Lord Theron. It is only scandalous because the man in question is _human_.”

He nodded.

“Rest assured, however,” she continued, “that I am not sleeping with any of my subordinates. Human or quel’dorei.”

“Good,” he appeared kingly for a moment, satisfied with Sylvanas’ responses. He stood, and she followed suit. “Come, walk with me. There are other matters I wish to discuss, and they are not nearly as privy.”

Sylvanas steeled her expression, but inwardly she thanked the Light.

The private gardens were hardly seen by even the highest of nobility. They were reserved for the royal family, and whoever they deemed worthy of walking amongst the magnolias and white and pink cherry blossoms. Everything was faithfully maintained, the fountains gleaming in the sunlight, their waterworks dancing and playing in the air, energized by centuries’ old enchantments.

Sylvanas, despite her misgivings about the prince and their previous topics of discussion, found herself relaxing in this environment. Rare and colourful birds sung from the tallest branches, and the sparkling fish in the delicate river cutting through the courtyard did not go overlooked.

“I was much too forward when I asked for your hand in marriage,” Kael’thas began, his tone thoughtful, “I apologize for that.”

Sylvanas glanced at him, wariness rising once more.

“There’s no need to apologize, Your Highness,” she assured him.

He smirked slightly, “I admire your composure. My father often wishes I be as calculated as you.”

She doubted Anastarian spoke of her by name, unless it was to insult her.

“I will not lie, I still desire your hand,” he confessed as they came to a spot at the fountain, “It would do Quel’Thalas well to see unity between our houses.”

Sylvanas gaze became fixed on the dancing water.

“Your Highness,” she began, cautious with her words, “I beg your pardon, but if this is another proposal, you’ll find my answer unchanged.”

The prince took the refusal in stride, shaking his head.

“No, I do not intend to propose,” he reassured her. She looked to him. “But I do hope perhaps you’ll entertain the notion of courtship.”

The Ranger-General said absolutely nothing for a moment that undoubtedly the prince found uncomfortable. She stared at him, unreadable as anything other than shocked. He hadn’t lied, however, though the suggestion was not of marriage, it certainly leant itself to that course of action.

“I do not think—“

Kael’thas raised his hand beseechingly, “My Lady, consider it this way. Even if our courtship is unsuccessful, it will silence the rumours in regards to your character. My father, who I know can be quite belligerent with his remarks and beliefs, will be satisfied.”

Ah, and there was the scheme he’d been waiting to reveal. Sylvanas would have applauded his patience, had she not been so frustrated at the soundness of the logic. She considered him and his offer with the cold, deliberate meditation with which she considered battle stratagem and tactics.

“And this decision would be announced, I presume?” Sylvanas inquired, she’d begun to wonder just how long would be acceptable before she told the prince the inevitable tragic news.

“It would, but this is only a fair arrangement if you – forgive me the human expression – give me a chance.”

She smirked slightly at his words.

“You will be a wise king one day,” she remarked, “I accept.”

Kael’thas smiled, pride practically oozing out of every pore.

“Thank you, Lady Sylvanas,” he took her hand gently and placed a polite kiss to the top of it, “You honour me.”

Her smile was small, but it was not cold.

“Your Highness,” she found herself distracted by a thought, “permit me a curiosity?”

Kael’thas nodded, “Of course.”

“It is in regards to Magister Drathir. I was wondering as to why His Majesty thought it necessary to send someone to oversee the situation at the border. I hadn’t thought the king’s faith in me shaken so deeply.”

It was not comforting when the prince appeared utterly puzzled by her words. His eyes narrowed in thought.

“Magister Drathir?” Kael’thas asked.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Sylvanas replied, “Dar’khan Drathir, he’s a magister. He arrived at the border, citing he’d been sent by royal decree.”

“Forgive me, My Lady,” Kael’thas shook his head, “but my father never sent any magister to the border.”

Sylvanas’ expression was of confusion and suspicion. What reason did Dar’khan have to lie? Why would he even want to be at the border? He hated humanity, he certainly appeared displeased with almost every action Sylvanas had taken to maintain peace. “Are you certain?”

“I am,” Kael’thas answered, “His Majesty keeps me informed on all his decisions, for good or ill. He would have written me that he sent someone to the border. But if you wish, I will ask him before I depart.”

“No, thank you,” Sylvanas said quickly, “forgive me, Your Highness, but I must return to the border at once.”

She would send a letter to Lor’themar before she left. She would have Dar’khan arrested when he returned with Nathanos. That arrogant bastard would be hauled back to Silvermoon chained in a bloody cage.

He’d _lied_ to her, pretending to be the delegate of His Majesty.

Dar’khan would be fortunate if she didn’t have him lashed first.

           

 


End file.
